


Stardust

by raisesomehale



Category: Stardust (2007), teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, M/M, Stardust AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisesomehale/pseuds/raisesomehale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>This is the story of how Stiles Stilinski becomes a man,<br/>a much greater challenge altogether.<br/>For to achieve it, he must win the heart of his one true love.</p>
  <p>-</p>
  <p>[Stardust/Sterek AU. You do not have to have seen or read Stardust to follow this fic.]</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this fic a while ago, and while I had fully intended on getting something out sooner, my laptop charger broke and that was no longer possible.
> 
> Still! I had the story saved on my email, and when Sterek went up against Destiel in the [Slash Madness Poll](http://www.thebacklot.com/2014-slash-madness-round-three/08/2014/3/), I promised Sterek fans that I would post the first 10k of this story if we won.
> 
> 10 guesses which ship won the poll ;)
> 
> Again, if you haven't seen/read Stardust, don't fret! I've written this story in a way that (hopefully) someone who hasn't even heard of the original story will still be able to follow and understand the plot. :) 
> 
> Hopefully I've approached the fusion of this story with the Teen Wolf characters respectfully, and don't offend any Stardust fans! 
> 
> Extra kisses and thanks to [Juily](http://officerstilinskihale.tumblr.com) for the beta, and oceans and oceans worth of love to [Sarah](http://allthemstilinskifeels.tumblr.com) for cheering me on and drawing some amazing [cover art](http://allthemstilinskifeels.tumblr.com/post/95771951716/title-stardust-author-raisesomehale-ship) for this story.
> 
> **Also, please note that as this story progresses the Rating, Tags, Characters, and Relationships will either change or be added to.**
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy the first part, along with the next installments I'll post once my laptop is no longer out of commission!
> 
> Enjoy~
> 
> -  
>  _This work was written and posted for my own, and the readers entertainment. Therefore I do **not** give anyone associated with Teen Wolf, (be it PR, production, the writers, the crew, the cast, press teams, etc.,) permission to extract excerpts from this story in order to be read aloud of shared publicly. I also do not give any third party websites, (be it Goodreads, ebooks-tree, etc.) permission to take what I have written and post it on their sites. Furthermore, I wish for my works to remain **only** where I have posted them, so they may be enjoyed and read amongst fans and no where else._

 

* * *

 

A philosopher once asked,  
“Are we human because we gaze at the stars - or do we gaze at them because we are human?”  
Pointless really.  
Do the stars gaze _back?_

Now that's a question. 

 

 _Our story begins here, a hundred and fifty years ago at the Royal Academy of_  
_Science in London England, where a letter had arrived containing a very strange inquiry._

 _The letter had come from a country boy, and the scientist who read it thought it_  
_might have been a  practical joke of some sort. All the same, he dutifully wrote a reply,_  
_politely explaining that the query was nonsense._

 _Then he posted it to the boy, who lived in a small village called Beacon Hills,_  
_which just so happened to be lined, the boy had said, by the wall he had been inquiring_  
_about. A wall that, according to local folklore, encased within it an extraordinary secret._

 _A secret that spoke of magic, of wonder, and of dangers_  
_so great it inspired fear in the hearts of the simple minded._

 _It was because of this fear that the town council of Beacon Hills took it_  
_among themselves to protect their inhabitants from such secrecy._

 _In time it was decided that no one was to pass over the wall,_  
_for what did not belong in their world surely shouldn't be meddled with._

 _This law was announced throughout the entire village. In order to see said law enforced,_  
_the Keeper –- a wise, stoic man who's superstitions could outweigh the best of them –-_  
_was assigned to supervise the gap in the wall at all times and send away anyone_  
_who got too close. A task which he performed thoroughly._

 _As the years passed, the stories of the notorious relic remained as nothing more than_  
_small murmurs exchanged between neighbors. However, the townsfolk all steered_  
_clear of the wall, regardless whether they labeled themselves as believers or otherwise._

 _Perhaps because the wall held no real interest for them, perhaps because_  
_an attempt to cross it would result in a hearing in front of the town council._

 _Or perhaps, they steered clear because their fear of the  
unknown _ _outweighed the_ _curiosity that rushed through John's veins._

 _The same curiosity, no doubt, that  prompted_  
_him to make the small journey out to the wall on this very night._

 -

The full moon is a welcomed light as John trudges through the green, overgrown underbrush of the forest. The canopy above scatters speckled droplets of light all around him, disrupting the darkness before languidly fusing into a blanket of murky luminosity as he steps into a thin clearing.

The only thing separating the two forests in front and behind him is the wall erected through the middle of the open space. It isn't the first time he's laid eyes on the crumbling barrier, (he's spent countless evenings lounging in the green grass that lines 'their' side of the wall, munching on some of the fresh green apples he'd snatched up as he made his way through the Kreiver's Grove, before tossing the respective cores up and over the rustic wall) but it's a far contrast seeing it at night as opposed to scorching under the summer sun.

Situated in front of the only hole lining the wall is the one thing he knew would cause certain complications: The Keeper. He's a dark man who looks thoroughly worn by time, his back slouched as he sits upon a wooden stool placed conveniently in front of the gap. When he spots John, he stands slowly and calmly, the same inscrutably blank expression taking up home on his face.

“Good evening, John,” Deaton greets when John is in hearing range, his voice gravelly and strained from old age.

“Evening,” John replies politely, nodding in greeting as he comes to stand a few feet in front of the man. Deaton stacks his palms on top of the decrepit walking stick he lugs around, and blinks, looking bored.

For a lack of something better to do, John brings his hands up from his sides to rub them together. “Fine night, isn't it?”

The old man turns to regard the night sky, nods before turning his gaze back to John. “That it is.” A tilt of his head. “What then, might I ask, brings you here on such a night?”

John regards Deaton for a small moment, quickly weighing which strategic route – or lack there of – he should take. He ends up settling for honesty. “Thought I'd convince you to let me take a peek over the wall.”

Deaton lifts an incredulous eyebrow, an impressive show of emotion from a man of such stoic stature. “We _both_ know how forbidden it is for me to let anyone pass through the gap.”

John shrugs, “No one has attempted to cross the wall before, and it's bound to happen eventually.”

Deaton blinks, “Therefore I should simply step aside and let you pass?”

“Yes, because, lets be honest, in all the time you've guarded the gap, have you _ever_ seen any evidence that would suggest a _whole other world_ resides on the other side of that wall?” Before Deaton can open his mouth to respond, John lifts a hand and motions sharply to the field. “Of course not, because it's a _field!_ ”

This makes Deaton lift both eyebrows, “Ah, so you're a disbeliever, then.”

John shrugs, “I trust reason.”

Deaton doesn't even blink. “You shouldn't meddle with things you don't understand, John.” He takes a step forward, knocks the tip of the walking stick against his chest, “And if you stick around here any longer, I'll have to report you to the council.”

John purses his lips, observing Deaton for a moment before sighing and feigning a put out expression. “That sounds pretty final, I guess I'll just be going home, then.” John ducks his head and turns to leave, Deaton nodding his head somberly in turn.

“Goodnight, John,” Deaton grunts as he guides John forward with a cold hand against his shoulder. “Give my best to your father.” John hums an affirmative noise, continuing forward as Deaton turns to walk back to the wall.

It's at that moment, with Deaton's back turned to him, that John takes the opportunity to pivot swiftly and race around him.

He ignores Deaton's shouts and curses as he leaps over the pile of rubble lining the gap, instead laughs victoriously and doesn't stop running until he's far inside the forest that sits just a few meters away from the wall.

When he breaches the edge of the forest, he slows to a stop just feet away from a shallow over ledge.

The sharp twinge of shock that surges through him in that moment is thanks to the sight of a small, circular town below. Towering walls encase the whole of it as luminous lights shine out into the night, beckoning those who are caught in its radiance to come forward.

John is helpless to do anything but.

It's a short distance from the edge of the forest to the opening of the small town, and John is dumbstruck at the confirmation that there are _actual people_ living no more than a few hundred feet from Beacon Hills.

If the town council could get over their absurd precautions with the wall and what John can now confirm is beyond it – not another world, just a _town_ – maybe they could strike up an alliance with this small community?

John notes, as countless men and woman carry various items passed him as he edges closer to the entrance, that this town seems more than bountiful. Why not take the opportunity to branch out?

He graciously takes in every regal detail carved into the stone as he passes under the archway that leads into the city, lingering appreciatively on the ancient looking runes and curlicues.

After he's crossed completely under the arch, he can't see much more than the hoards of people on every side of him. He's in the middle of watching two small, twin boys race after each other when a woman with frizzy hair and shifty eyes yanks him from the crowd with a tight grip.

John has heard about this sort of thing happening in bigger trading towns: people are more aggressive and will go to any extent to get you to buy something. Of course, _he's_ never experienced such behavior before, not unless you count when Mr. Kinsey and Mrs. Mary fought over which of them would be the one to sell lettuce at the market place back home.

Nonetheless, he willingly goes along with it, curious to see how this sort of thing might pan out. That is, of course, until he's actually standing in front of the woman’s booth, and can see for certain what she appears to be selling.

It's in that moment that John makes a noise in the back of his throat, one he probably couldn't reciprocate but would describe as _strangled,_ and croaks out, “Are- are _those_?”

He bends forward and holds up a finger to point at the cages lining the woman’s tables. If his finger happens to shake just a little, it's only because he can't remember falling asleep, because _surely_ he's dreaming, it's the only explanation that makes any sense.

The woman who yanked him from the crowd places her hands on her round hips, smirking proudly as she teeters back and forth on the balls of her feet. “You'd bes' believe et,” she crows, “White-tailed ely-phants, bred an' born right 'ere in Storm'old.”

“They're – they're as big as my _hand_ ,” John stammers out, eyes widening as a world of realization crowns over his head.

The woman continues on like he hadn't even spoken. “Ya won' getta betta' sized white-tail anywhere in Market town.” She shrugs, unapologetic, “Tha' is, unless ya wanna try ya luck wif' the pirates.”

“ _Pirates_?" John squeaks.

“Filfy thieves,” she sneers, “The lot of 'em.”

He shakes his head, scratching a hand through his hair as he straightens from his hunched over position. Eventually he asks how much they are, simply because he can't even _begin_ to imagine what the price for such a thing might be.

The woman seems pleased by his inquiry, and hums happily as she picks up a clipboard from off the table, tugging a pencil down from the mess of hair atop her head. “Migh' settl' for a cats pelt, or an' 'andful o' wishes.”

Johns eyebrows shoot upward at the last bit, “ _Wishes?_ ” He says, sure he misheard her, “How does one _pay_ with wishes?”

The woman gives him an odd look, like she's never had to answer that question before. “Wif' yeh eye-lashies, o'course.”

He wonders for half a second what his mother would do if he actually bought and brought home an elephant so tiny it could run around in their bread box.

The cat probably wouldn't get on with it very well.

A smooth, modulated voice cuts in from behind, “I wouldn't waste a single eyelash on those tuskers, if I was you.”

John turns to follow the source of the voice, just as the old lady shouts, “Oi! Stop scarin' off my business!” and immediately straightens, as if prodded with a white-hot poker, when his eyes catch sight of who had spoken.

It's a woman, with soft amber locks that frame her smooth, petite face; her thick eyelashes outline bright eyes resembling that of melted caramel. A single freckle teases the corner of her plump lips, and it lifts with the smirk that eases its way onto her face.

She smirks slyly at the woman, arms crossed over her chest. “Trust me, you don't need _my_ help in order to scare off customers.”

The old lady makes a crude gesture at that, starts to turn back to John, but he's already forgotten what ever it was he was doing beforehand; all he can focus on now is walking over to the small set up the young woman seems to be manning.

She tilts her head when he comes to a stop in front of her, her hair slipping over her bare shoulder with the movement.

“What'll you be having then, handsome?” She asks, places her hands on her dainty hips. A gown the color of the evening sky hugs the upper half of her body, and fans out from her waist down.

“Uh,” John says intelligently, given he hadn't exactly gotten a look at what she was selling. Can he be blamed, though? He was _much_ too distracted with the natural blush that warms the lady's high cheeks.

He blinks and glances down to find an array of flowers.

Respectively, he should probably be freaking out, considering he has just confirmed the whereabouts of what is, indeed, a _magical world._

He'll do that later, though, when he's not in the presence of a lady that smells of ground nutmeg and freshly fallen snow.

John smooths down the hair at the nape of his neck and glances up at the woman, “You're so sure that I'll buy one?”

The woman simpers, raising her eyebrows in place of a head nod, “I just saved you from buying something that would've lasted _maybe_ a week.” She airily brushes a stray hair out of her face, places her elbows on the high table and smoothly rests her chin atop her hands. “You owe me, 'ely-phant' boy.”

John smiles dopily, even despite the nickname, and snatches up the first flower his fingers wrap around. It's only when he lifts it up that he see's the petals are a shockingly vibrant color of red. “What about this one?”

The woman straightens as to analyze the small blossom. “That,” she starts conspicuously, “Will ward off any unwanted love attention.” Both of John's eyebrows shoot up at that, and the woman chuckles softly before reaching out to take the flower from his hands.

“They'll cost you a childhood memory, maybe the color of your eyes.” She waves her free hand in the air and places the flower back in it's place. “You shouldn't buy that one, though.” She gives him a mischievous grin, and drops her voice to a whisper, “Buy this one instead,” and lifts another flower into view, this one's petals a crystalline white. “It'll keep you safe.”

John looks over the flower if only to keep himself from staring into the woman's eyes for the rest of his life. He clears his throat, going for casual when he gestures towards the flower. “Is it a childhood memory for that one, as well?”

She laughs brightly, and he finds the way that her up-turned nose scrunches while doing so to be incredibly endearing. “You catch on fast for a tourist.” When he gives her a mixed look of incredulity and surprise, she brushes a finger over her nose and gestures to his clothes with her eyes. “Your clothes are stitched with thread instead of horse hair.”

John glances down at his clothes at that, can't help but feel incredibly impressed by her sharp eye. At the same time, he can't help but wonder who else called him out purely for the decisions made by his tailor. Maybe that's why the old lady had singled him out in the crowd.

When he looks back up, the lady is smiling softly, starring her hands out on the table in between them as she leans forward.

“If you're really interested, you should know up front that this ones _far_ too valuable for such simple payments,” she informs, a smirk sharp on her lips. Then she's leaning dangerously close to John's ear, warm breath inspiring goosebumps to rise across his skin when she whispers the next bit. “It'll cost you a kiss.”

John blushes unabashedly, feeling his heart turn over sharply in his chest as apprehension runs up his spine.

“Couldn't you get in trouble for that?” He asks, swallowing thickly.

“I suppose,” And then the woman is reaching for his hand and folding the blossom away in his palm, like a gift he'll open later, and guides his lips to hers.

Her lips are cold to the touch, no doubt due to the chilly air, but they soon warm under John's gentle touch. He cups her dainty jaw in his hands, ghosting his thumbs over the apples of her cheeks as she curls attentive fingers into the hair laying against the nape of his neck.

The woman is the first to pull away, lingering momentarily by pressing her nose and smiling mouth against his cheek. “Come with me?” She asks softly, but by the way she then straightens and immediately turns towards the rickety yellow trailer parked behind her set up, John has little doubt she meant it as a question.

It's only when she begins to step up the stairs that his attention is drawn towards a thin silver chain wrapped around her ankle, tying her to the trailer. She doesn't seem to notice his distress at first, not until he's standing in the doorway, bending to pick up the chain.

“He enchanted that special for me,” the woman explains when she notices where his attention has been drawn. “Said it was the only fetter fit for a princess.”

John's mouth opens slightly, eyebrows pinching even closer if possible. The chain in his hands reminds him of yarn, so slim and weightless that it can't be very straining against her ankle, but the image of imprisonment the word 'fetter' inspires makes him frown. “Princess?” He asks, twisting the chain in between his fingers. “Does that mean you're a-?”

“I was,” she smiles, “Until I was tricked into being a witch's slave.”

John's eyes widen in horror, and the woman laughs when he glances cautiously out the trailer door for said witch. “She's gone to gamble at the Peddler's booth, reckon she won't be back for days.” She's seated on the small mattress positioned at the back of the tiny space. Still troubled, John squeezes the chain tightly in his palm. “You could try to free me,” she suggests gingerly, eying his grip, “If you'd like.”

His reaction is instantaneous if wary, pulls out the black handled pocket knife he always keeps with him. He pinches the chain together to make a loop, and then places the knife inside the loop and slices upwards. The chain does cut, but his momentary happiness slips away when it simply twitches in the air, and seals back together.

The woman sighs, “Every time.”

John turns to her, “You knew it wouldn't cut?”

“I'll only be free when she dies,” she informs, seemingly undeterred by the heavy conversation at hand.

“And you're _okay_ with that?” He asks, tone incredulous.

“I've accepted it,” she says simply.

“If I can't free you,” he drawls in reply, “Then what exactly do you want from me?”

She simpers once again, making a show to slowly lift her hand and bring it down to pat the spot next to her on the mattress. As realization dawns, John hastily reaches to shut the trailer door, before moving to join her.

 

-

 

_So the scientist was wrong._

 _The wall had successfully done its job of hiding the  
__magical kingdom of Stormhold._  

_The young man returned that night to Beacon Hills, hoping  
that his adventure would soon be forgotten._

_But nine months later, he received an unexpected souvenir._

 

_-_

 

The knock comes moments before John is to slip under his covers. When he answers it, dimly lit lantern in hand, it's Deaton standing on the other side of the door, and clasped tightly in his grip, is a small wicker basket.

“A young woman and a very disconcerting old maid left this at the wall for you,” Deaton informs him, lifting the basket with one hand out to him.

John takes it with shaking hands. A mess of white cloth is laid out inside the basket, in the center – bundled up nice and snug – is a peaceful, sleeping face with creamy skin and soft, closed eyelids.

“She asked if I might make sure that he found his way safely to you.” John doesn't look at Deaton after he spoke, feeling as if the task of looking away from the sweet face near impossible at the moment.

“There's an envelope in there,” the older man continues nonetheless, “A name I could hardly pronounce signed across it.”

John spots the envelope mentioned, tucked against the side in between the basket wall and the baby's small form. When he looks back up, Deaton gives him a consoling look, pats him firmly on the shoulder, and turns to walk away.

John stands there for a stunned moment, before the chilly air prompts him to step back inside and shut the door.

He doesn't take the baby out of the basket – afraid he might wake him, and instead sets the basket on the bed besides him once he's climbed the stairs and slipped under the covers.

After spending another thirty minutes watching the baby take small, soft breaths – his thumb running along the exposed skin of his arm almost reverently – he tucks the knitted blanket more securely around the baby's – his _son's_ _–_ tiny body, and finally lays his head down to rest.

 

-

 

 _Eighteen years pass_ _, and the baby grew  
up, knowing _ _nothing of his unconventional heritage._  

_But never mind how the infant became a boy._

_This is the story about how Stiles Stilinski  
becomes a man, _ _a_ _much greater challenge altogether.  
_ _For to achieve it,_ _he must win the heart of his one true love._

 

-

“Stiles,” his father calls out warily as he races past the kitchen, intent on exiting through their chipped front door.

Upon hearing his father's voice, Stiles begrudgingly back tracks so that he's standing in the humble, arched doorway that leads to their kitchen. Inside, his father is seated at the table, himself and the table swathed in sunlight as a result of the checkered window just above them. Without even glancing up from the page he's currently studying, his father asks, “Where are you off to?”

As a sign of impatience, or perhaps nerves, Stiles taps his fingers against the doorway. “What? I'm headed to the shop, obviously.”

His father glances at him over the top of his novel, a disbelieving look playing at the edges of his eyes. “You're headed to work this early.” It's a wonder how his father manages to make this sound more like an accusation than a question.

“Yes,” Stiles confirms, teeters back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I have to stock the shelves before opening, and since Finstock doesn't trust Greenberg to do it alone, he threatened the well being of _both_ our necks if it's not done properly.”

His father sets the book face down on the table, efficiently saving his spot whilst simultaneously creasing the spine – Stiles tries not to cringe at the sight – and crosses his arms over his chest, landing Stiles with a skeptical eyebrow raise.

Stiles is well accustomed to that particular interrogation tactic; knows that he's not fooling his dad in the slightest if he's decided to use it.

“Alright,” Stiles relents, lets his head fall back on a groan. When he lifts it back up, he rubs at his forehead if only to avoid his dad's gaze. “Lydia's headed to the shop today, and I offered to walk her.”

“Lydia Martin?” His dad's eyebrows lift incredulously, “As in, the daughter of the mayor, _that_ Lydia Martin?”

Stiles tucks his hands into his front pockets, “Have any other Lydia Martin's moved into town that I don't know of?”

“She lives in the upper east cottages,” his dad presses on, and Stiles doesn't appreciate that his tone sounds judgmental. “Don't you think that's a bit of a long walk?”

“Hence, me leaving _early_ ,” Stiles drawls, making a slow flourish in the direction of the front door.

Sighing, his dad scratches his scrunched forehead with his thumb before motioning to Stiles, “This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that you've been infatuated with that girl since she discovered hair curlers, would it?”

“Uh, _no_ ,” Stiles responds defiantly, “I was infatuated with her even _before_ she had curly hair.”

His dad gives him a blank look, “You do realize she'll probably marry that Whittemore kid by spring, right?”

“Yes, actually,” he sniffs. He's only reminded of this fact _every_ time he see's them together. “Which is why I've resigned myself to admiring from a fair distance until her parents wake up and realize what a monumentally _huge_ mistake that is.” He shrugs, “Then they'll call off their plans for an engagement, the planets will realign, and she'll realize the person she really loves is me.”

His dad groans in exasperation and scrubs a hand over his face. Stiles is intimately familiar with _that_ particular gesture as well.

“Alright,” his father relents finally, “But take the road past the stables, or you'll never get there in time.”

Stiles beams, his excitement for the day, being able to spend even just a portion of it with Lydia, his one true love, back in full swing at having his dad's go ahead. “You're the best!” He strides fully into the room and gives his dad a one armed hug, before racing back out through the doorway.

“Yeah, yeah,” his dad mutters, fondness in his eyes. “I'll be in late tonight, so you'll have to start dinner for yourself, is that alright?” He says the last part with a raised voice, given that Stiles is already ducking out the front door.

“Always is!” Stiles tosses over his shoulder, before stepping out of their modest home and setting off down the road.

The streets are always empty this early in the morning, the thin fog that swirls along the hard packed soil of the street has yet to dissipate.

Stiles doesn't normally venture out to the upper east cottages this early in the morning, or _ever,_ really.

After all, a lot of the more snobbish and arrogant townsfolk reside in the towering cobblestone houses that make up the upper east side. And while they might be well renowned for their luxurious parties, the type his kind have never seen the likes of, they aren't exactly known for being neighborly. (Or tolerable, for that matter.)

The rows of brick houses that make up his neighborhood lead into the tall grass of the country side. Taking the path that cuts through the overgrown field, it isn't too long before he can hear the tell-tale whinnies and clipped trotting of the horses.

Once he over comes the hill he can spot the stables, spacious green fields unlike the wiry yellow ones he's treading through going for acres behind the cherry oak building.

He waves at the stable boy – because it's only right, and the people around these parts need as much amiability as they can get – and stops to run his palm over the black barb mare before he's leaving the stables behind him and coming up on the opening of the upper east cottages.

When he finally comes upon Lydia's lawn, his nerves have inconveniently returned, full-fledged and unrelenting. His palms have begun to sweat – another inconvenience, Lydia might need a hand to hold as they take to their walking! – and weighs the pros and cons of tucking tail and running.

But no, he won't. He's only had so many chances to spend time with Lydia over the years, and as much as he likes to assume that they've come to develop _some_ sort of friendship, he highly doubts leaving her to walk to the store on her own will do much in his favor.

And so he stays.

He's in the middle of contemplating whether or not he should simply knock on the door, or possibly toss rocks at Lydia's window to alert her of his arrival, when the front door suddenly swings open, and Jackson Whittemore is stepping out of the house.

He doesn't see Stiles right away. Mostly because he's too busy scowling up at the sky, as if he finds the weather unsatisfactory in some way or another. Though Stiles can't understand why, the skies are bluer than they've been all summer, and the big fluffy clouds offer nothing but cool shade and a pleasant picture. When he turns away to do up the gold buttons of his sleeve cuffs, he scopes the lawn and finally spots him.

He almost looks surprised when he does, before his expression transforms into an almost _delighted_ sneer. “Mr. and Mrs. Martin have already donated to charity, this month.”

“Ha _ha_ ,” Stiles intones with a glare he hopes burns _holes_ through his overpriced overcoat. _No one_ needs that many golden trimmed pockets. “Where's Lydia?”

“She's already donated as well,” he says with an insufferable amount of arrogance.

“Just tell her I'm here,” Stiles snaps, and waves a hand he hopes comes across as dismissing in Jackson's general direction, “Alright?”

Jackson scoffs quietly and rolls his eyes, but he does turn and shout back into the house behind him. “Lydia, there's a stray out on your lawn barking for you!”

The smile he turns on him after that is short lived when a hand comes out to smack him on the shoulder, causing him to step down from the doorway as Lydia emerges after him. “Jackson,” she says, voice clipped, “Don't be an ass.”

“Yeah, Jackson,” Stiles taunts, smirking when Jackson glares at him. “Don't be an ass.”

Lydia steps down from the doorstep then and begins to brush off the nonexistent dust on her dress, barely acknowledging Stiles.

He rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly unsure of himself all over again. “Er, you ready to go, Lydia?”

She does look up then, her sharp expression turning soft when seeing him seemingly sparks her memory. A weight akin to dread drops into his lower stomach as he realizes she must have forgotten what they agreed to a few days ago. The anxious excitement Stiles had been feeling from the moment he woke up to just a few seconds ago slips away like a thin powder in the wind.

Before Lydia can get a word out, Mrs. Martin is stepping out of the house behind the two of them. A black umbrella is resting against her shoulder, and paired with the blue gown that fans our around her feet is her infamous grimace.

When she spots Stiles on the lawn she sighs. “Ah, Mr. Stilinski,” her voice is nasally as she prods at Lydia's back, coaxing her to move forward and out of her way.

Stiles nods in a way he hopes is respectful, and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his breeches. “Mrs. Martin.”

She fluffs her hair, now not even looking in Stiles' direction. “Sorry dear, but Lydia won't be needing assistance to the shop today. We're headed to the awards ceremony where _our_ Jackson is scheduled to place in gold.”

Stiles wonders absently if she knows just how pretentious she sounds. Then again, he knows Mrs. Martin to be the type of woman who speaks purely for the joy her voice gives her.

Jackson, on the other hand, seems to find no fault in her words, nose listed so high to the sky Stiles wonders – briefly – if air will fly up his nostrils and carry him out of Beacon Hills completely.

He can dream.

“Don't worry about it,” Stiles bites out and forces a smile.

Lydia throws an apologetic look over her shoulder as her mom drags her away, and with a discouraged sigh Stiles sets off down the road in the direction of the shop.

 

-

 

“You're suppose to wrap the band around _two_ stalks of broccoli not – okay stop, just, _go._ Grab Mr. Ryan's coffee beans.” Stiles orders impatiently, nudging Greenberg out of the way so he can take over before any more damage can be inflicted on poor old Mrs. Jefferson's grocery order.

Once Greenberg has stumbled out of hearing range, Mrs. Jefferson smiles in appreciation across the counter. “Thank you for stepping in, dear, I just don't understand why Finstock keeps that boy on grocery orders.”

Stiles laughs warmly and nods along in agreement, “I suspect so that I can swoop in and save all the pretty damsels.”

Mrs. Jefferson laughs delightedly at that, waving a finger at him. “Like your father, you are. Used to charm his way out of everything.”

Stiles gives her a mischievous grin as he properly assembles her basket, “Have I been accused of being charming, then? Why, Mrs. Jefferson, what will your husband think?”

The small old lady puffs her chest out, “That he's lucky to have a broad who still attracts all the men.” They laugh together as Stiles turns the finished basket around and pushes it across the way towards her.

“I slipped in a bar of that butter you like so much,” he whispers, brushing his pointer finger over his nose as he does so, “But don't tell Mr. Jefferson, he might get jealous.”

She chuckles and shakes her head, “Old grump can hardly be troubled to grab the paper let alone notice my extra grocery items.” She slides the basket over her arm to rest in the crease of her elbow, then pats one of his hands just like she used to in primary school. “Give your father my best.” Stiles nods his agreements to do so as she waves and leaves.

Just as she's reaching the door, Lydia is slipping inside the shop next to her. Stiles feels himself perk up at the sight of her, straightening his posture immediately.

She stands in the door for a moment as the two exchange words – Stiles is almost positive the whole town had Mrs. Jefferson as their primary school teacher – before they're saying their goodbyes and Lydia's turning to find Stiles.

He grins and waves her over, and after she directs a dubious look at the long line of people, she relents and moves to do so.

“Hey,” he smiles. “I thought you were at Jackson's award ceremony,” Stiles says with a derisive flourish in the air.

Lydia rolls her eyes and brushes a strand of hair out of her face, “I was, but he had a rugby tournament afterwards.” Stiles raises his eyebrow in question, which she replies to with an impatient look. “I'm not going to sit around all day watching sweaty men tackle each other over a _ball_. I have more important things to do with my time.” With a sense of finality, she turns her attention to her nails.

“Like, come down to Finstock's?” Stiles teases, “I'm sure one of the drunks passed out on the veranda will pass for charming company.”

Apparently not finding amusement in his joke, she rolls her eyes and pulls her shawl closer around her shoulders. “I wanted to speak with you, actually.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say yes, when Greenberg comes up from behind and cuts him off. “No,” he hisses, “Finstock will _kill_ you if you leave me to man the store by myself.”

Stiles pushes at Greenberg's face and makes an annoyed noise deep in his throat. “ _Then don't tell him_ ,” he says as threateningly as he can manage through his teeth, then slips out of his apron and followers Lydia out of the shop.

 

-

 

“About this morning,” Lydia starts as Stiles yanks a leaf off of a tree they pass under. “I wanted to apologize.”

He shrugs and tears off a corner of the leaf, lets it flutter down to the ground. “Honestly, I'm more sorry that you actually have to spend time with that dunce.”

Lydia hums as she observes the few displays set up in the shops on her left, hands crossed over her chest as they walk. “I meant my mother, actually, but Jackson was very rude as well.”

Stiles nibbles on his bottom lip, chin pointed towards his chest. “Is she always like that?” He asks, a bit unsure. This is possibly the longest conversation he's ever had with Lydia.

Lydia's eyes are narrowed by the barest amount when he looks over. Stiles is worried for a moment that he'd said something wrong, when her face smooths out into a neutral expression once more. She shakes her strawberry blonde locks out of her face, and sighs a sigh that signals a change in conversation. “So this shop boy charade,” she waves her hand in an arbitrary manner, “When are you planning on dropping it so you can get on with your life?”

He feigns a noise of offense, “What makes you think it's all a charade?”

She looks to the right at him, looking unimpressed. “No person who was second in his class is meant to wrap broccoli and weigh chocolates.

“Second?” He challenges.

“Behind me, obviously,” and it's not like she's wrong, but he can't help but preen at the fact she'd remembered.

 

-

 

Finstock informs Stiles upon his arrival back at the shop that he's fired.

Stiles glares at Greenberg as he takes his walk of shame out of the shop, because he's a traitor and a fiend and a _traitor_.

Unfortunately, Greenberg is too busy sifting through the potatoes to catch the glare.

In all honesty, Stiles isn't so much upset with losing his job as he is with having to now go home and explain to his father _why_ he lost his job.

“Do you think he'll believe me if I tell him it was an unfortunate lapse in judgment on Finstock's part?” Barley stares up at him, tongue lolling out of her mouth as Stiles runs his palm over her slick black coat. “Yeah, I don't think he'll believe that either.”

“Believe what?”

Stiles nearly topples forward onto Barley at the sound of his dad's voice. “Dad,” Stiles chokes, flailing as he stands, “I thought you weren't coming home till later?”

“They called Delgado in.” He slips his hands into his pockets, gives Stiles an expectant look.

Stiles clears his throat, and after a pregnant pause says, “Do you want an apple turnover?” He motions to said sweets that are currently resting on the cooling rack on the counter next to the stove. His dad gives the apple turnovers and then him a skeptical look, before he's walking forward and scooping one of them into the palms of his hands.

“Thanks son,” he says in a cheery tone that Stiles can see through _immediately_.

His dad takes a seat in one of the chairs at the table, blinking up at Stiles with innocent eyes as he takes an appreciative bite.

Stiles isn't falling for it though, nope, no way. He's not seven years old and going out of his mind with guilt for breaking the vase that's been in their family for years.

Things have changed, he's _matured_.

He worries at his bottom lip for all of two seconds before he blurts out,“Finstock fired me because I went on a walk with Lydia Martin when I was meant to be manning the shop.”

He turns and stuffs an entire apple turnover in his mouth – he made them nearly the moment he got home, meaning they've had plenty time to cool – before ducking his head as he joins his dad at the table. Instead of the disappointed lecture Stiles was expecting, his dad simply begins to shake with silent mirth.

Stiles looks up at him, mouth agape. “It's not funny!” Stiles declares, though his words lack any real solidity since the corners of his lips curve slightly upwards as well.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh,” John holds his hand up all the while shaking his head. When he's calmed down, he gives Stiles a sobering look, “You really like this girl enough to go through with tonight, then?”

Stiles takes a deep breath and nods, “Yeah.”

The chair creaks as John leans back in it, “Well, go on then,” he smiles softly, “And hand me another one of those apple turnovers before you leave.”

Stiles hands him two for good measure, before making his way out of the kitchen.

 

-

 

Stiles decided long ago that it's only _proper_ that in celebrating his one true love's eighteenth, he should go to any extent to make it memorable. Even if said love's actual birthday isn't for a few more days. Semantics though, right?

He has saved paycheck after paycheck for months in order for this night to be possible, and has been planning it for even longer.

Though, he'll admit, Jackson hadn't exactly been penciled into his two dimensional 'make Lydia swoon and jump into waiting arms' blueprints he had drafted when he was eleven. Even so, he won't let that tiny hindrance put a damper on his plan.

In fact, he's taken every precautions to ensure that not even Jackson can ruin their evening: Stiles heard word that he was traveling out of town, there's no _way_ he can get in the way tonight.

Now all he needs is to get Lydia on board. Which, granted, sounded a lot easier in theory.

“My birthday isn't until next week,” Lydia says skeptically as she squints down at him on the ladder.

Stiles makes an exaggerated gesture with his head and quickly regrets it when it causes the ladder to shake. He wraps both arms around it and waits for it to settle before popping his head back up to speak with her. “I know, that's why you have to come with me _now_ before your mother packs you and Jackson inside a boat and sends you out onto the lake with a hired violinist.”

Lydia rolls her eyes and taps her finger against the window seal of her bedroom window. She's wearing her night gown, no doubt had been about ready to get in bed, and glares down at him with uncertainty.

Finally, she snaps, “If I'm not back by twelve I'll have your neck.”

“I'll have you back by eleven,” Stiles promises hastily.

She sighs, eyebrow lifted impatiently as she takes a step back from the window. She says “I'm not stepping out on that ladder with you. There's no way.” But before Stiles' heart can sink too much, she's turning around and shouting over her shoulder, “I'm taking the stairs.”

Stiles fist pumps, then scrambles to wrap his arms around the ladder again when it threatens to fall back.

Meanwhile, miles away from the small village of Beacon Hills, the sky lays calm and reverent as the king of Stormhold struggles through his last few moments.

Wheezing harshly through rotted teeth, Gerard raises his dying voice to speak out to his sons. “Where,” he wheezes once more, “Is Peter?”

“On his way, father,” Chris answers, hands folded behind his back.

Nearly the moment after he'd spoken the tall double doors to the right of the kings large, lavish bed are opening forward. With an air of insufferable pomposity and arrogance, Peter struts into the room and meets his brothers at the end of their father's bed.

He smirks at each of his brothers before turning to regard their father with a contemptuous smile. “Apologies for being late, father. There was a, ahem, _matter_ to be dealt with in my chambers.”

“Does this 'matter' happen to have long legs and blonde hair?” Deucalion asks.

Peter smirks, “One of them.”

Gerard draws in an impatient breath and raises his voice as loud as he can muster. “Of my seven sons,” he says, successfully cutting Peter and Deucalion off, “Only the three of you remain. An unfortunate turn of events, considering my time of passing is no doubt upon us. Now we're faced with the question of how to settle this ten year long battle for my position.” A nurse brings over a white cloth when he begins to cough. He pulls the cloth away form his mouth after a moment, blood staining the fabric. “As you know, I had twelve brothers who-”

“You all killed before your father the king even began to show signs of illness,” Deucalion recites as if from a book.

“Yes father, your bravery and valor has inspired us all,” Peter says boredly.

It's then that Gerard turns his unsettling gaze upon his youngest son.

“Peter,” he says, managing to sound condemning even in his weak state, “Would you look through the window?” Gerard asks while lifting a shaking hand pointed to the wide open space to his left.

Peter smirks smugly at his brothers, jutting his chin proudly as he turns from them and steps surely up to the window.

“Tell me what you see,” his father croaks once Peter's scoped the land outside the window.

Peter puffs his chest, “I see the kingdom of Stormhold, father.” He looks over his shoulder when Gerard makes a thoughtful noise.

“And?” Gerard prompts.

Peter motions to himself, “ _My_ kingdom?”

“Maybe,” Gerard drawls, “Look up.” Peter does as he's told, and Gerard turns to shoot his other two sons a thoughtful look.

Deucalion's eyes sparkle with mischief for a moment, and then he's stepping up behind Peter and pushing him over the ledge with one hard, careless shove. Chris turns away.

Gerard's laughter is stunted and weak, barely covering Peter's shrieks of terror as he falls. He takes a deep breath once his amusement has passed.“I can do no more, it seems we will have to solve this situation in a non-traditional manner.” He pulls on a heavy gold necklace hung limply around his neck, yanking it over his head and revealing a large ruby nearly the size of a baby's fist. When he opens his hand, palm up, the ruby lifts into the air above him, shining brightly.

The king's final words are as follows: “Only he of royal blood can restore the ruby, and the one who does so shall be the new king of Stormhold.”

The ruby stops glowing when Gerard's head falls back, breath dying like a sputtering candle on his chapped lips. Chris and Deucalion eye each other for all of two seconds, before they're both lunging forward towards the ruby. The ruby, seemingly having plans of its own, gives off one final shimmer of light, before shooting forward past the brothers and out through the open window.

 

-

 

“Oh, look!” Lydia gasps, pointing to the night sky.

When Stiles looks up above them in the direction she's pointed to, what he finds is a flaming tail of purple and white shining bright and true as it flashes across the sky.

A falling star.

Stiles makes a pleased noise, smiles as he turns to Lydia. “Make a wish.”

Lydia levels him with an unimpressed look, “You don't wish on falling stars.”

Stiles shrugs, “If you say so,” and silently makes a wish of his own.

If it happens to revolve around winning the heart of his true love, no one but he needs to know that.

Near the wall, a good mile or so away from where Deaton keeps guard at the gap, Stiles has set up a small picnic.

He picked this location for the small, leafless trees that surround it, found that they were the perfect shelving spots for the small tealight candles he brought and set out. The candles illuminate the woven red blanket nicely, various baskets set out amongst it's surface. Lydia makes a curious noise at the sight and kneels down in front of one of the bigger baskets. Stiles plops down in front of a basket himself, pulls out a bottle of champagne just as Lydia pulls out the box of pretzels he'd packed earlier.

He hands her one of the flute glasses filled with champagne as she opens the package and pulls out a pretzel. She bites down on the pretzel and takes the glass with her other hand, eyebrows creasing as she inspects the glass and takes a hesitant first sip.

She makes a surprised noise after doing so, “Is this Dom Perignon?”

Stiles points at her with the hand that isn't holding his glass, “Don't sound so surprised! I have good taste.”

“It's not that, it's just,” she motions to the whole set up, “How did you even afford all of this?”

Shrugging, he starts to unload more of the food: some cheese who's name he can't pronounce, a few blocks of white chocolate, ripe plums, and some fresh bread from the Bakery. “I saved up from working at the shop.”

That causes her to set the glass down. “Stiles, you can't spend all your savings.” She gives him a pointed look, “You just got _fired_.”

“Ah, you heard about that, then.” Stiles hands her a piece of bread, she takes it with a sigh.

“Obviously, considering our walk was probably what caused it,” she presses her lips together, “I'm sorry if it was.”

“Don't apologize,” Stiles tries to say as sternly as he can, “It wasn't your fault, you don't have to be sorry.”

She flicks her hair out of her face and juts her chin out stubbornly, “Well I _am_.”

“But I'm free now!” Stiles spreads his arms wide to punctuate his words, “You're the one who said I should 'drop the shop boy charade' and now I can! I can, I don't know, finally finish that doghouse I always bragged about when we were younger.” Lydia gives him a look like she doesn't believe it, which, who needs a dog house, anyway? “Or maybe I'll travel, go to the moon!”

Lydia scoffs, “The _moon_?” and shakes her head. “And to think my dad was impressed when he heard Jackson was going to _New York_ to buy me a ring.”

“Wait,” he says, backtracking so fast he feels almost dizzy. “Jackson is going to New York to get you a ring?” Lydia nods, eyes cast down as she smears cheese on a cracker. He nibbles on his bottom lip, admits, “I didn't think the engagement would be so soon.”

“It better be,” Lydia says around the cracker, swallows, “Considering we're meant to have the ceremony once he returns with the ring.”

Stiles feels the high he was riding on moments before come to a sudden, crushing stop. “ _What_?”

She does look up at him then. What she see's makes her sigh in irritation. “You knew this was happening, Stiles.” After all, it was the first thing she lead with when turning him down a few days ago, before offering they walk to the shop together to make him feel better. Of course, that had ended horribly, as well.

“Yeah, but not so soon!” He cries, thoughts frantic. He doesn't mean to come off as rude, but no doubt has when Lydia's eyes turn hard at his raised tone.

“You didn't think it would happen so _soon_?” She scoffs, and it's an ugly sound he hasn't heard since before she began acknowledging his existence. “Did you think you'd have more time to, what? Break us up?”

Stiles cringes momentarily at the sharp, acidic tone of her voice. He doesn't know how he forgot, even for a _moment_ how smart she truly is. Of course she knew all along, could probably tell whenever the three of them ended up in the same room.

Even so, he doesn't let that deter him in the slightest. “Better that,” he tries with a steady voice, but knows for certain he's failed, “Than sit around aimlessly while you marry someone off the promises of your _father_.”

“Better _that_ ,” she hisses right back, “Then stay in Beacon Hills all my life. If Jackson is willing to go all the way to _New York_ to get me a ring, then he sure as hell can take me away from this god awful town.” Her words transition from angry to indifferent as she tips her head back and downs the rest of the champagne.

Not yet given up on the fight, Stiles asks in a tone that's almost pleading, “Wouldn't you rather marry someone you love?”

The look in Lydia's eyes is like a bucket of ice cold water as they flick to meet his. “I don't _love_ anybody,” she practically enunciates. “Not in the way you're suggesting.”

And, _sure_ , Stiles knew that this thing he had for Lydia was unrequited in the utmost form of the word, but he'd always had _hope_ . Even as he's swallowing the lump in his throat, he can't give up on hope, not when it's all he has. Not when Lydia deserves so much more, not when the idea of her marrying someone purely because she _wants more_ weighs so heavily in the back of his mind.

The silence hangs around them for an few unbearable moments, before Stiles is softening his voice and saying, “Lydia, if all I had to do to marry you was go to New York, I would go ten times _over_.” He takes a deep breath, “I'd swim the Atlantic and bring you home a Diamond as big as your fist, dive into the depths of the ocean and bring you back the key to _Atlantas._ I'd -” he licks his lips and takes pause for a moment. “Hell, I'd cross the wall and fetch you that fallen star.”

Her head snaps up at that, the disinterest that once filled her eyes sizzling out as she narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You would fetch me a _star?”_ When he nods his head, she shakes hers and says, “ _No one_ crosses the wall.”

“I could do it,” if it meant having you, Stiles doesn't say, knowing that wouldn't be what Lydia was agreeing to. That is, _if_ she agreed. “If I bring you back that star,” Stiles presses on adamantly, “Wouldn't that be proof that you're worth so much more than _Jackson_?"

Lydia presses her lips together and gives Stiles a thoughtful look. “Are you suggesting, that you'd fetch me that star in exchange for me canceling my _own_ wedding?”

“Yes,” he says firmly.

After a long moment of pursed lips and calculating looks, she's sighing and tipping her glass towards him. “Fine. But you only have one week to retrieve the star, or there's nothing that will stop me from marrying Jackson.”

Stiles clinks their glasses together.

 

-

 

The large, steel double doors burst inwards as Kate takes a long drag from the cigarette propped between her pointer and middle fingers.

“Katherine-” the boy says hurriedly, chest heaving as he comes to a stop a few feet from where she's standing by the floor to ceiling window.

She never did learn his name, not as if it matters in the slightest – at least this time he remembered her particular rule on 'personal space' and kept at a fair distance. She would have hated to have had to reprimand him once again for crowding her like he'd done so many times in the past; she just had her nails done.

Instead of turning towards him, she taps the cigarette against the tray laying on the window seat and folds her free arm over her chest, fingers gripping her bicep as she brings the smoke back to her lipstick coated lips.

“I thought I told you to call me Kate,” she reminds him, blowing the smoke through 'o' shaped lips. “I haven't gone by Katherine in a very long time.”

In her peripheral vision, she can see him squirm uncomfortably. It's absolutely delightful to hear him correct himself by saying, “Kate,” with such heavy leaded discomfort.

She can't really blame the boy for growing up as he had, though. Surely it's unsettling going against what he was taught to be a respectful manner in which to address a person above you. Blasted nobles and their rules of tradition. She'd never appreciated her given name, sounded too formal and not at all fitting for a huntress of her starchier.

Then again, she hadn't always been. Used to be well endowed with riches fit for the princess she was, trinkets lavish enough to bring envy to all who doted on her.

She's not a little girl anymore, though; dresses laced with golden thread, diamond jewelry mined from the very caves hidden in the mountain she lived atop do not fulfill her in the ways they used to.

She can only guess that such a loathing for said luxuries comes from being unowned and then banished from the kingdom her blood family still rules. A punishment, her father had said, only proper after what she'd done.

Her only palliative to date is when word reached her of her father's demise.

An ugly scoff passes her lips at the thought of the pompous fool, and in a fit of bitter irritation, she turns from the window. The contempt the reminder of him brings enough to seer bark from trees, let alone twist her face up into an ugly sneer.

All the while she'd been stuck in the past, the boy who's name she's forgotten has been going off about the star that had raced over their position on the hillside mere moments ago. But of course she had already seen it, had the boy not noticed her position by the window? Nor the handful of wooden divination runes lying upwards on the wooden table? The same wooden runes, coincidentally, she'd had to pry out of the old broads bloody fingers after slicing her throat.

“Boy,” she addresses him sweetly, puts the cigarette out and walks over to stand in front of him. He swallows thickly when she meets his gaze, and she smirks sharply at the shiver he exudes after she's run a smooth palm down his arm. “Why are you still here,” she asks, brushing a stray strand of hair back from his forehead, “When you could be out fetching me the items I'll be needing for my journey ahead?"

The boy visibly blanches at that, blue eyes widening ever so slightly. “You plan to pursue the star?” He asks incredulously.

Kate laughs, reaches a hand up to cup his young face sharply. She's always been fascinated with the physical construct of a young teenage boy's face, soft lines just beginning to harden, coarse hair working it's way to peek through smooth skin, strong jawlines and cheekbones just waiting beyond the horizon of adolescence.

Leaning forward until only inches separate their faces, she whispers, “How else will I get his heart?” The boys face twists with terror and dismay, and she can't help she amused laugh. She takes her hand back with a flick of her wrist. “Now go,” she orders on a sigh, bored of her little game. “And fetch me that loony emissary you insist is of use to me.”

She turns back to the window as the boy rushes out.

It's not ideal, working with Morell, but she'll need her guidance before setting out on her quest.

 

-

 

“What happened?” Stiles' father asks, voice lathed in concern as he rushes to the table side where Stiles is pressing a slab of meat to his throbbing black eye. “Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine,” Stiles waves him off as he takes a seat. “Just nursing my eye along with my ego after a run in with the Keeper.”

His dad chuckles as he takes a seat at the table.

“The Keeper did this to you?” His dad asks, looking skeptical. Stiles gives him a blank look. “Stiles, he's ninety seven years old.”

“Well, it's given him plenty of time to practice, hasn't it!” Stiles says with an indignant tone.

He pulls a seat out to join him. “Why are you pestering that old soul?” He teases, but Stiles is hardly in the mood. His dad sighs, “Why were you trying to cross the wall, son?”

Stiles does look up at his dad then, eyes set with determination, “I was about to ask you the same question.” In the – very few – moments he spent with Deaton, he had learned one of two things.

One: Deaton is surprisingly nimble for his old age, and two: tricking Deaton into letting him cross the wall – like he had _planned_ – turned out to be an impossible task from the get go, what with Deaton upping his guarding tactics after Stiles' _father_ slipped past him years prior.

This doesn't seem to take his father by surprise, not like how Stiles had thought it might. In fact – he _smiles._ Tilts his head as if reminiscing about fond memories.

“Come with me,” his father says, tapping his knee, “I'll show you why.”

 _Why_ ends up being a small, wicker basket with old white linens that have collected an impressive amount of dust from it's position in their attic. Stiles is completely at a loss when his dad pulls out two stools, motions for Stiles to sit on one and then does the same with his, as if he'd _planned_ for this.

Then he begins to talk.

He talks for so long that they have to light a few hand held candles to keep the dark at bay, and after he finally finishes, all Stiles can do is sit there a little slack-jawed.

His dad sits there for a moment, as if waiting for Stiles to react. All Stiles can do is clear and continue to sit in stunned silence.

After a moment, he's finally able to form words. “My mom is alive?” He manages in something that barely resembles a whisper. “She's – she's been on the other side of the wall this _entire time_?” Stiles' voice sounds distant to his own ears, a happiness and hopefulness taking up home inside of him and making his focus on everything else seem fuzzy around the edges.

His dad scratches the back of his neck, “Well, I don't know for certain. But I definitely _hope_ she's still alive.”

It begs too many questions, but in the end all Stiles can do is motion to the basket. “She made that for me?”

A smile Stiles rarely sees slips into place on his dad's face. Maybe an outsider would consider it content, happy, but Stiles knows that his father reserves that smile for conversations about the grandparents Stiles barely knew before they died, for the mother Stiles is only now understanding hadn't abandoned him by choice.

“She did,” his dad says softly, fondly, and then lifts a small, silver chain up from the basket. Stiles makes a noise of recognition.

“The enchanted chain!” He laughs, it all feels like one of the fairy tales his dad used to read to him at night. And maybe he should be a bit more skeptical, upset maybe, but all he can do is gather the chain in his hands with soft reverence.

“Oh, there's also this,” his dad says, and turns to pull out a crinkled letter from the basket. “I never opened it, thought it'd be nice if you got the chance to do it yourself.”

Folding the severed piece of chain and slipping it into his pocket, Stiles carefully takes the bulky envelope into his hand. He brushes his thumb over the name scrawled across it's front in feathered writing, and smiles softly. “So that's where I got it from,” Stiles snorts.

His dad chuckles along with him, “Even if you go by Stiles, she still wanted you to have that name,” he shrugs, “Thought it was only right that you kept it.”

Stiles gingerly runs the pad of his fingers over his name one last time before he flips the envelope over to open it up. Inside is a black candle that's wrapped in rough parchment. Stiles hands the candle off to his dad and unrolls the letter, clears his throat and reads aloud:

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _My dearest son,_
> 
>  
> 
> _I want you to know that I've only ever wanted the best for you. Had my master allowed it, I would have kept you in a heartbeat. My dearest wish is that we will meet one day, and for that reason I have enclosed within this letter a black babylon candle. The fastest way to travel is by candlelight. All you must do is light it and think of me, and only me, as I will think of you everyday for always._
> 
>  
> 
> _-Your Mother  
>  _
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

Stiles swallows the lump in his throat when he's finished, thumb brushing over the corner of the parchment before he rolls it back up. He takes the candle from his father once it's offered to him, and looks it over once, as if expecting to find something – anything – to suggest that it's anything more than a regular house candle.

When he finds nothing, he takes a deep breath, and figures there's no harm in trying.

Stiles looks up at his dad, hands twisting nervously around the candle, “Do you have a light?”

His dad makes a noise of confirmation and reaches for his back pocket, before stopping and hesitating. “Wait, one more thing,” he says, and then turns to pull the same flower from the story out of the basket as well. “She said it would keep me safe, though I couldn't for the life of me figure out how,” he shrugs, “Can only guess it'll do the same for you.” He scratches at the back of his head in uncertainty, and then prompts Stiles to take it by holding it out to him.

It feels like taking another piece of his mother into his hands, the small souvenirs brought back from his father's trip long ago more than he ever hoped to have of his mother.

His dad strikes a single match against the wood of the attic, and not a second after he's leaning forward and lighting the fuse, Stiles is disappearing from the attic with a flash of bright light.

 

 

-TBC-

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next installment! I hope you guys like it, and forgive me for posting it so long after the first. School and work have been brutal, to say the least. All the same, I tried to make this chapter longer than the first so that it'd make up for it! :) 
> 
> Again, all the thanks to [Juily](http://officerstilinskihale.tumblr.com) for the beta! Go give her love and kisses because I wouldn't have gotten around to posting this without her.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

 

Fear is the first human emotion Derek ever experiences.

Like the fire licking at his sides, it singes through his chest as he's forced through Earth's atmosphere, whatever it was that had hit him whizzing along next to him in their mutual descent.

He makes impact with the Earth as if plunging through water: numbly, not feeling much more than a straining ache in his right leg once everything is finally, disconcertingly still.

He opens his eyes to find the plethora of his twinkling brother and sisters sewn into the ebony canvas above him. It's the sight of such a thing that inspires an entirely different human emotion to course through him. And as an attempt to understand or even identify the foreign sensation, he recalls to his memory the motivation that had fueled so much destruction and sorrow on this planet.

It's only now that he understands what that motivation had been: loss.

He has fallen.

When he lifts his eyes to the left, past the North star, he sees the empty space that now resides in lieu of him, and has to turn away. Silence falls, and it's as if the trees and small woodland creatures and wispy clouds above have fallen silent in woeful commiseration.

He swallows, and slowly pushes himself up in order to better take in his surroundings. The Earth looks angry every which way Derek looks, having been disrupted so brutally and without warning. He sympathizes deeply, and tracks his eyes over to the cause of their mutual woes.

Reaching over, he takes into his hands the large jewel. It's wrapped in brilliant gold, and on the tail end it's pulled sharply to form a loose loop.

It's of absolutely no value to him, but he's witnessed the wars that have raged over such a possession. He tugs it over his head as an after thought. If all else fails, he could always bargain the thing in exchange for a way back into the sky.

 

-

 

Traveling by candlelight feels like waking from a slumber Stiles can't recall falling into. Space and time ebb into a hazy sea of blackness, the veil shattering only when he's propelled back into his senses. It's then, with the nipping winds beating against his face, that he realizes he's approaching an unfamiliar form at the speed of, well, _light_.

He has just enough time to prepare himself mentally for the inevitable pain about to be inflicted onto his body, before he's smacking right into the man, knocking the both of them to the hard packed soil. The stranger, now underneath him, lets out a long, emphatically _annoyed_ grunt of pain.

Stiles scrambles to get his hands and knees underneath him, distancing their bodies so that he can look down at the man from where he's now perched above. He looks murderous, to put it lightly. And Stiles, practical as always, doesn't find it wise of him to put actual homicide past the stranger, not when he has a face like that. Hard, serious, and Stiles might actually die tonight. _Death_ by candlelight, thanks, Mom.

“Oh, god,” Stiles says weakly, “I am _so_ sorry, are you...” he trails off when he realizes he's not entirely sure what he intends to ask, or better yet – how to phrase it. The man is _clearly_ not his mother, and it raises the question of where exactly the candle had taken him. Even more, why, for whatever reason, it had decided to send him to this man of all people.

He gestures wildly with his right hand, left still bracketing the man's head, and decides on: “ _Who_ are you, exactly?”

Face drawing up in indignant anger, the man barks out, “You fall from the sky, knock me to the ground, and your first initiative is to ask who I _am_?!”

Stiles' mouth snaps shut with an audible 'click,' wide eyes staring into the man's narrowed ones. He isn't particularly sure that speaking – or moving for that matter – is the smartest course of action at the moment. His silence proves to be nothing more than an annoyance for the man, though, who harrumphs irritably.

“Just get – get _off_ me,” he shoves at Stiles' chest until he has no other choice but to let his body fall in the direction he's being shoved. He ends up flailing backwards onto his rear, hands immediately scrambling to push himself into a more dignified position.

Once he finally manages to get to his feet, he begins to feel a little aggrieved himself. “I didn't _plan_ on flying into you,” Stiles retorts petulantly, dusting himself off. When he looks up, he's being treated to a rather ornery glare. Stiles barely refrains from sticking his tongue out in retaliation. He doesn't, though, stop himself from placing his hands on his hips and scowling back as good as he's getting.

The man scoffs in an offhanded sort of way, and turns his attention towards sitting up properly.

It's the difficulty that one move seems to be for the man that stops Stiles from turning and leaving. He likes to think that his father raised him to be the type of person who _wouldn't_ stomp away from a person who appears to be injured, especially since said injury was most likely inflicted by Stiles himself.

Scratching a sheepish hand through his hair, Stiles takes a deep breath before motioning in the stranger's general direction. “Can I help--?”

“You can help by going away,” the man interrupts before Stiles can finish, shifting uncomfortably on the ground as he gazes down at his leg. A disgruntled look spreads across his features as he grabs at his ankle.

“Fine,” Stiles huffs, and turns in a flourish as he marches away. That is, until he takes in his surroundings for the first time since landing, and stumbles to a startled stop.

“Oh my god,” he mutters on a sharp inhale, taking in the whole of the charred crater he happens to be standing in the center of. His mind scrambles to make sense if it, going back to when he'd flashed out of Beacon Hills.

And that's when it clicks: surely it was his _mother_ that had been on his mind as he held the candle, awaited for it to be lit, but moments before the match made contact with the fuse a single thought had flickered through his mind:

The fallen star.

Spinning quick on his feet, Stiles searches eagerly for the large slab of rock, and not a moment later his short lived euphoria snuffs out of existence as easily as it had risen up when he sees nothing more than charred dirt lining the bottom of the crater.

Stiles turns to peer over at the man as he nibbles on his bottom lip. There's a good chance that, given their location, he might know something about the star; perhaps someone came along and went off with it before he'd arrived. There's also a good chance the man will rip Stiles' throat out with his teeth if he bothers him with anymore questions.

Sighing dejectedly, Stiles' thoughts slip to Lydia. He recalls to the front of his mind a memory of her from months prior, her smile vibrant and delighted after receiving the title of valedictorian. It's not often that smile surfaces, instead hidden behind the sharp smirks and clever quips that come so easily to her lips.

He allows himself to fantasize about the possibility of that smile appearing for him after fulfilling his promise to bring her back a star. And this time, it will hold a myriad of promises for their future to come.

Determination restored, Stiles turns and walks over to the stranger. “Excuse me,” Stiles begins, holding his hands up in surrender as he kneels beside the man. He's rewarded for his actions with another murderous glare, but he doesn't let it deter him. “I know this is a weird question but... Is it possible that you can forget for the moment that I flew into you in favor of answering it?”

The man says nothing, but Stiles takes this as more of a go ahead to continue than a silent, unspoken suggestion to stop existing. “I'm looking for a fallen star,” he says slowly, “Have you any idea where it might have landed?”

A moment passes, and then the man is huffing out a spell of bitter laughter, “That's funny,” he bites out. “Really, you're hilarious.”

“No, I'm serious!” Stiles motions to the whole of the crater around them, “We're in a crater, if the star didn't fall here, then it must have landed nearby.”

“No,” the man says shortly, “It fell here.”

A smile lights up Stiles' features, that sweet twinge of hopefulness enough to make his fingers tingle in anticipation. “It did?” Stiles breathes.

“Sure,” the man nods somberly, “It touched down not too long ago. In fact, if you want to be _really_ specific, up _there_ ,” the man jabs a fingers towards the sky, “Is where it spent its usual evenings, gazing down at this insignificant piece of rock suspended in space, because what else was there to look at, really?”

Stiles frowns, blinking in confusion and feeling as if he's missing the punchline to some unspoken joke as he sits back on the heels of his feet.

“That is -” the man continues, nodding along as if the tale is one he's grown bored of from retelling so many times. His demeanor is irritated, while his tone is nothing short from cheerful.  It doesn't take a genius like Lydia to deduce his blatant sarcasm, especially for someone like Stiles. “-Until this necklace here decided to fly in out of no where and knock it out of the heavens when it was minding its own _damn business_.”

Stiles' eyebrows rise as he looks down to where the man is gripping the biggest jewel he's ever seen. It's attached to a thick golden chain that rests against the man’s thick, tan neck.

“So yes, it landed here, but not in this exact spot,” the man concludes sharply, referring to where he's currently seated, “Because that would suggest it hadn't been slammed into and knocked a foot or two out of its _actual_ landing spot by a magical, flying, _moron_.”

Realization hits Stiles so hard he feels breathless with the impact. “ _You-_ ” he says in disbelief, lifting a finger as if pointing at the man would make this situation any less bizarre. “ _You're_ the star. You're the _star_?”

The man presses his lips together, lifting his eyebrows in a way that Stiles feels paints himself as the idiot in this situation.

“That is so –“ Stiles takes a moment to sputter shamelessly, then composes himself with a brush of fingers through his hair. “Wow, I had not expected you to be an actual, living person.” He won't deny that he giggles for a moment. This... this might actually work in his favor.

Respectively, an inanimate chunk of rock is the type of present you can keep as a priceless treasure, whereas Stiles'll have to let this man – the _star_ – go after Lydia sees him. Still, a person will be a lot easier to transport back to Beacon Hills than some massive rock.

“As opposed to an actual, dead person?” The star deadpans.

Stiles ignores that in favor of saying, “Just in advance, I _am_ sorry for this.”

The man’s eyebrows crease, “Sorry for wh-” but he cuts himself off when Stiles pulls out the chain his father gave him in order to swiftly secure it around the star's wrist. The man doesn't even bother looking at the chain, just watches as Stiles quickly and efficiently moves many, _many_ feet in the opposite direction, the chain extending as he goes.

“So,” Stiles crows proudly, hefting in a breath once he's at a fair distance, “I'm pretty sure this means you have to come with me.”

The arm of the man Stiles had wrapped the chain around is still extended in the air, as if the events of late have made him so unbelievably exasperated he can't even muster enough energy to lower it.

He does, though, manage to close his eyes and take a deep, trying breath in through his nose. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Stiles shrugs, “'Fraid not.”

The star's eyes snap open about the same time he makes an arbitrary motion, “And _where_ exactly do you intend to take me?!”

“To my true love, Lydia,” he boasts cheerily. “You're meant to be a birthday present.” It's not the absolute truth, but does he really need to know the innermost workings of Stiles' brilliant plan? He thinks not.

The star looks at him as if he's a piece of parchment with writing so small, you have to squint in order to read it.

“Come on,” Stiles coaxes with a wiggle of the chain, “I can't give someone a gift if the gift doesn't cooperate.”

“Right,” the man says, nodding derisively, “Because nothing says _romance_ like the gift of a kidnapped, injured _man_.” Then he yanks back on the chain so hard Stiles stumbles forward, almost falling face first into the dirt.

“Hey!” Stiles squawks as he regains his balance, “ _Not_ cool.” The man rolls his eyes heaven ward. “You don't _seem_ injured,” Stiles says suspiciously. If the man is a star, it's not hard to guess the difficulty he'd been having earlier was more for a lack of experience than pain.

“ _I fell from the sky!_ ”

“So did I!”

“You fell on _me!_ ”

“We are wasting so much time,” Stiles sighs in frustration, he only has a _week_ to get back to Lydia, and he isn't even sure where they are or how to go about finding his way back home.

“Tough,” the star grumbles, “I'm not going _anywhere_ with you.” He crosses his arms stiffly, and turns away from him. Clearly, this conversation is over. Stiles tips his head back and groans openly, glancing to his left then right before hanging his head and, accepting his fate, takes a seat a couple of feet away from the star.

 

-

 

Soft nickers and crisp click-clacks echo around the court yard as Chris readies his team of horses. He can feel their impatience as he secures his wheelers' breeching, and perhaps their source of restlessness stems from his own eagerness to finally be on the road. Allison always used to say the foursome made for apperceptive company.

She'd been smiling at the time she'd made the observation, brushing a hand through Aeris' mane as she stood atop a wooden stool in order to reach. It's funny, how he can recall the finest of details in regards to the last time he'd seen his daughter – the smell of the dry straw surrounding them, the brilliance of the sun as it shone through the stable opening; the terror that rang true through the scream she let out as a figure drew her into the forest.

And yet, he can't recall the sound of her voice. Not her laughter, not her grumpy tone that resulted from her dropping her voice a few octaves when something upset her. All he can remember is the scream that pierced through his slumber, the way it grew fainter as he shot from bed to follow after it.

She'll have matured over the years. Her vocal chords having grown deep, formed into a lilt suitable for a young lady.

Securing the breeching with one final tug, Chris turns to step up to the seat at the front of the coach. He grips the reigns of the carriage tightly in his hands, folding them over his palms twice for a better grip.

A handful of feet away, his brother Deucalion is dutifully preparing his horse and men for his respective ride.

Chris was more than relieved to find that they won't have to duel to the death in order to resolve the question of who will reign. Deucalion is a good man. Or at least, he used to be before the thirst for power drove him to kill so many of their brothers. As for Chris, he'd only ever raised his blade when faced with one himself.

As time passed his brothers were picked off one by one, some following in Deucalion's footsteps by taking to the sword themselves, and others doing as Chris had by choosing a less bloodier path. Or at least, as little blood as could be managed.

He often wonders how it came to be him entering the last stretch of the race alongside his eldest brother. For a long time, he'd cast aside any hope of reigning in favor of his wife, his daughter; the two variables that made him unqualified for the position. A fact, it just so happens, that made his father none too pleased.

At the time, he couldn't have been happier than he was with his small family. Victoria, on the other hand, was livid that he couldn't engage in the traditional accession ceremony. For many years she fought to change the rule that stated the new king has to be unwed at the time of his coronation, argued the point that Chris was more worthy than any number of his brothers; having a wife shouldn't change that.

In the end it hadn't mattered. Victoria's life was taken not long after Allison was stolen, and he was finally eligible to compete for his father's crown.

Chris shakes himself from his thoughts as he smacks the reigns sharply to get the horses going. There's no point in dwelling after all these years. He's not sure if he'd be a good king, even less sure that Deucalion will be, but perhaps that originates from the fact that his only purpose for pursuing the crown now is the men that will be granted to him. An army of loyal shields and swords prepared to follow any and every command given to them by their king.

It's with this army that he plans to set out in search of his daughter. He knows she's still alive, can feel it pressed tight against the pain that hasn't left since she'd been taken in the first place. Only when he's able to bring her home will he find true peace and contentment.

She would prompt him to be a good king, he thinks. And if he must rule when all is said and done, he'll willingly do so. All he must do is find the jewel before Deucalion.

 

-

 

“ _Don't you sleep_?” Stiles demands, overflowing with frustration after the infuriating man has pulled on the chain, and in effect jostled Stiles out of sleep, for approximately the one hundredth time.

“Not at _night_ ,” he pulls on the chain again, almost purposefully this time. “I'm a star, remember? It might have escaped your notice, but night is normally the time when stars have more _important_ things to do than sleep. Like: coming out – _shining_.”

“Has it escaped _your_ notice that you're not _in_ the sky anymore?” Stiles rubs at his tired eyes, just barely containing a grumble. “You're on Earth now, Star, where people sleep at _night_ and function during the _day.”_ He moves to lay his head back down, when something occurs to him and he's lifting it once more. “So don't even think about taking any naps while we're walking tomorrow!” He throws an accusatory finger in the mans direction, “I mean it – napping has been suspended until further notice, shining is,” he waves his hand and lays back down, “Off the agenda.”

“Are your ears clogged or do I need to beat it into your head?” The star snaps. “ _I'm not going with you.”_

“So, what? You're just going to _stay_ in this crater? In that specific spot? _Forever_?” Stiles scoffs, “Wow, _brilliant_ plan, Star, really great work, let me know how that works out for you.”

“Stop calling me 'Star,'” the man grits out, and this time when he yanks on the chain it dislodges Stiles enough that he chooses to stand altogether.

“Alright,” Stiles announces, fed up with the yanking and the sarcasm and the grumpiness. “I _was_ going to put you back in the sky after Lydia sees you, but you obviously have more important things to do, like brood in this crater and scare off tiny, defenseless woodland creatures with your dazzling personality.” He emphasizes the last part by waving his hands in the direction of the star.

“You were planning to 'put me back in the sky?'" The star scoffs, "What, did you assume I would magically fly up there after you've satisfied your precious Lydia?”

“Actually,” Stiles raises his voice, sniffing defensively, “I heard the fastest way to travel is by candlelight, but if you'd prefer magic--”

“You've got a babylon candle?” The man interrupts hurriedly, eyes filled with a foreign sense of light Stiles hasn't seen even a flicker of since they met.

“Sure do,” Stiles reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, holds it out like a trophy.

The man observes it eagerly, then scrunches his face after a moment. “That _barely_ has one use left.”

He's not wrong, the candle does appear to have shrunken after the first use. All the same, the star seems correct in his assessment that there's enough left for one more trip. “Well, I _was_ going to give what's left to you, but if you're going to be ungrateful about it maybe I'll just use it right now to--”

“No, stop!”

Stiles stills his hand from where it was reaching for a match in his back pocket, smiling smugly as the man chews on the insides of his cheeks, an action that suggests he hadn't intended to sound so desperate. The man's eyes narrow when Stiles lifts his eyebrows in a taunt.

“Fine!” He relents at last, throws his hands in the air before crossing them tightly over his chest. He inhales slowly, begrudgingly, and doesn't meet Stiles' eyes when he finally snaps: “Help me up.”

Stiles moves to do just that.

 

-

  
  
Flickering candles line the creaking wall boards in the narrow corridor, the dull light only interrupted by warm shadows cascading in between candle stand intervals. The castle nowadays is a far cry from the pristine and lavish sanctuary it was back when Kate had seized it years prior. What was once a place built of intricate marble structures and fine woodwork has now been reduced to a place of desperate refuge.

Matted cobwebs can be found adorning every corner, paintings that were once valuable are now laced with stuffy dust, the richest and blackest of ebony wood rotted through and accompanied by the runner rug's that the rats have taken to nibbling on over the years.

There was a time – when motivation still brewed on the horizon and the passion to purify the world was as alive as the honeysuckles that bloom in the spring – where Kate had more supporters than she knew what to do with.

Entire villages would fall silent at the mere mention of their names, the creatures they hunted would slink back into the shadows for fear they might be next. It was a glorious era wherein they banded together to strike down the pests that dared scurry over her father's land.

But, what started as a call for all the werewolves and witches and nymphs of the lands' heads, mutated into a thirst for power like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

And on one fateful night, when she'd brought one of the more renowned witches in Stormhold to her knees, she got a taste of the magic that rushed with the slowing pulse of her heart.

It was then that she'd found Morrell, an adviser of sorts the witch had kept around for protection. In exchange for her life, she'd promised Kate the knowledge of how to obtain a power like none other that she had experienced.

She was taught how to harvest parcels of the dead witch's power and transfer them into her own possession. It was only by death of the vessel that such an action could be performed, and only small margins of her power could be collected at one time.

Still, it was an intoxicating rush she wouldn't soon give up.

After that, she was only able to keep the fact she was using magic a secret for a few short years. When she was found out, months from her eighteenth birthday, her people abandoned her, and she was banished from her father's land and family.

She was well aware of how forbidden it was for a human to practice the ways of the dark arts, and her hunting party hadn't seemed to forget either. In fact, they felt that she ought to be hunted like any other monster they'd killed in the past.

Instead she fled, loathe as she is to admit to such a cowardly action, and has been awaiting her chance for revenge on the kingdom ever since. The only problem was that a mere handful of dead witch’s powers would never be enough to accomplish such an act.

But, she'd been told of the raw power that can be granted to one by consuming a star heart. Surely, the type where she'd be able to bring an entire kingdom to its knees by her will alone.

She's been waiting for this chance for nearly a decade.

The thick chamber door at the end of the corridor is lined with a touch of light as a shadow moves along underneath the entry, but Kate doesn't bother to knock when she enters the humble quarters. Morrell is standing by the open fireplace when she looks away to meet Kate's eyes, a small box held in her grasp.

“You are all set for your journey, then?” Morrell says, voice as annoyingly monotonous as it's always been.

“Nearly so,” Kate sighs, stepping up to the small bureau lining the wall next to the door. She taps her fingers against the varnished wood, tracking her eyes over the small treasures set atop the dresser.

"You'll need one last thing." Morrell steps over to the small oak table set up in the middle of the room, setting the box in her hands on its surface. “I have in this box the remains of the last star heart. Take it and be victorious in your quest.”

“Remains?” Kate echoes, a spark of wonder flitting up her spine. She drops her hand from the dresser, and it lands at her hip. “Why, Marin. You've been holding out on me.”

Morrell blinks in boredom, fingers working over the lock on the box. “I salvaged what little was left from the last that had fallen.”

“And you neglected to pass this information onto me, because?” Kate asks slowly.

Morrell hums in lieu of a response. “Shame, though, that what I had managed to save isn't enough for more than a few sparks of magic a day.”

Kate rolls her eyes. “Have you forgotten this isn't the first hunt I've set out on?” She turns the box to face herself, gazing down on the contents inside. “I hadn't needed the magic of the heart then. It's a luxury this time, if anything.”

“You had nearly an army of hunters and the remaining wisps of stolen magic the last time you set out on a true hunt. Now all you have is an old, captured emissary, and a frightful squire.”

Kate purses her lips. She understands how minuscule the magic she's been consuming over the years is compared to what a star heart holds. It's the whole reason she'd constructed her plan around one falling in the first place. And while only a small piece remains of the last, it glows brilliantly as if taunting her to reach out and taste.

She reaches out to do just that, lifts it to eye level and observes it. “But, it'll be enough to lure the star?”

“It will,” Morrell confirms. “Remember this, though: A frightened star heart is nothing compared to one that's cut out whilst glowing.”

Kate smirks at the old hag, and swallows the piece in one go.

 

-

 

“We're lost.”

“We're not _lost_ ,” Stiles argues, then promptly stumbles over the bits of forest underbrush that litter their path. Derek, as Stiles has recently learned, sighs behind him. They've been walking for what feels like days, trudging past clearings blanketed in wiry grass, over windy hilltops, and now through a forest that never seems to end.

He knows, logically, that it couldn't have been more than a few hours since they climbed out of the crater; the sun that now peeks down on them from over head is proof enough of that, yet he feels like they've walked the length of Beacon Hills twice _over_ by now.

All the same, he knows they're headed in the right direction. Call if a gut-feeling, or the pull of Lydia's heart guiding him home; he'd trust either.

“And even if we _were_ lost,” Stiles turns to say over his shoulder, as if bringing up an unarguable point. “You're not exactly jumping at the opportunity to help get us _un_ -lost.”

“What makes you think _I_ know where we are?” Derek asks as he glances up at the green canopy above, a whimsical sort of curiosity taking up home in his eyes. It's the sort of look Stiles has spotted a few times during their time together. The first had been when a nest of cottontails dashed from their hiding spot in a bush Stiles had accidentally brushed up against, another time when Stiles vetoed the long route and instead trudged the both of them through a crystal clear, trickling creak; and now as the sun casts sparkling halos of light around each individual leaf and branch strung over their heads.

For a moment, Stiles lets himself look over Derek's features as the man's attention is focused elsewhere. Stiles hasn't gotten the chance to identify the color of his eyes, but his soft locks waft upwards – as if reaching towards the milky sunlight – and the broadness of his shoulders are apparent under his long sleeve shirt. He has a hint of stubble covering his pronounced jaw, and his lips are a soft, muted red.

“You're a star,” he says absently, “Haven't you _seen_ all of Earth?”

Derek raises an eyebrow, slowly lowering his head in order to meet his gaze. “Therefore I should know every road and path by heart?” Stiles shrugs, and Derek scowls. “I'm a star, not an _atlas_.”

Stiles raises his hands, “Alright, touchy.” He glances down the long expanse of road in front of them, path covered in twigs and leaves and the occasional overgrown weed that managed to push itself up through the gravel. “Aren't stars supposed to be celestial and peaceful?”

“Luckily for us both," Derek deadpans, dry as dust, "I'm on temporary leave from all Celestial Star Duties."

The corners of Stiles' mouth twitch in amusement, and then Derek is hissing in pain as he stumbles behind him. They're not moving at a particularly speedy pace, a fact Stiles isn't absolutely thrilled with in all honesty, so there's no other reason for Derek to be stumbling other than him having difficulty.

Coming to a gradual stop, Stiles turns to the other man. His face is skewed upwards in what is clearly pain, and he looks to be trying his hardest not to lean too much weight on his left side. Stiles' eyebrows crease with the observation, and it's almost subconscious when he takes a step towards him. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I'm not okay,” Derek snaps, the easy back-and-forth banter from before now replaced with a grimace as he limps over towards a nearby tree. “I told you I was injured,” he grumbles.

Stiles walks with him so that the chain doesn't pull and jostle him anymore than can be helped. He rubs a guilty hand over the back of his neck as Derek leans against the thick trunk. Sheepishly, he asks,  “You were serious about that?”

Derek shoots him a harried look as he maneuvers himself on the ground, hissing through his teeth as he moves his hurt leg straight out in front of him. With a gruff and exasperated huff, he turns to look at Stiles. “What would it have benefited to lie about me being injured?"

Stiles kneels next to him, all the sudden aware of his every movement. “I, uh, kinda thought you were pretending so that you could get out of coming back with me to Beacon Hills.” Derek clenches his jaw minutely. Then he's shaking his head and leaning it back against the tree, clearly done with looking at Stiles.

Nibbling on his bottom lip, he racks his brain for a way to help Derek, then hesitantly inches himself forward to reach a hand out for his hurt leg. He immediately stills his hand when Derek flinches backwards, before he's even touched the man.

Glancing up, he's met with attentive eyes that look unsure, almost defensive. For a moment, there's a startling resemblance to that of prey.

“Come on,” Stiles coaxes softly, “There's no harm in letting me look, is there?” Derek's mouth twists as his eyes flit over Stiles' face. There's distrust there, sure, but neither have the luxury to that emotion at the moment. “Derek, I'm not going to hurt you. Well-” he winces, “Anymore than I already have. But that was an accident, and I understand how this whole injury thing works a lot more than you do, am I right?”

Derek's eyes flash at the accusation, making a small part of Stiles hope that he'd gotten through to him. That same part grows warm and happy when Derek gives him a small nod, making Stiles sag in relief. He rips the pant leg as gently as he can, and exhales shakily when he finally see's the swollen area, the angry purple coloring alluding to the pain it must be causing.

His voice is quiet, contrite when he shakes his head and says, “You should have told me it was this bad.”

“Because you would have believed me?” Derek asks calmly, though it's obviously not meant as a question. Stiles isn't sure if the calmness is worse than him shouting.

Nonetheless, Stiles narrows his eyes. “That's not fair.”

“Isn't it?” Derek asks, eyes challenging. "You clearly don't take anything I say into consideration."

Stiles sighs and sits back. “I could try to splint it,” he offers, choosing to move on from the petty argument. He _would_ have listened. He would have cared. “But I've only ever seen my dad do it once, and there's a chance I'll screw it up.”

“Know a lot more about it than I do, huh?” Derek ridicules quietly, the words more of a mutter to himself than anything.

“It's your best bet,” Stiles snaps angrily. “I don't see anyone else walking by to offer you their help."

Derek's eyes narrow and he once again turns his head as to avoid Stiles' gaze entirely. After a few moments pass, Stiles gets impatient and makes the decision himself. He secures the chain around the wide tree trunk in silence, only stepping back when the two ends he made seal together – and in effect, secure Derek in place.

“I'll be as quick as I can,” he states curtly as he stalks away. He doesn't receive a reply.

 

-

 

It's not too long before Kate's coming up on a rickety yellow trailer, the stench of magical incense growing stronger as she approaches. She has no interest in interacting with witches – filthy creatures – but accompanying the aroma of magic is that of meat, and therein lies her motivation to approach.

“Who's there? What's your business here!” The witch Kate knows to be Jennifer calls out to her. There was a time where she had the name of every witch in the land categorized on an list, starting from the most powerful to the least. “If you're here to steal from me, you won't get very far.”

Kate comes to stand in front of her, a sigh on her lips. “Calm yourself, I'm not here to steal from you.” She lifts her gaze and racks an impassive look over the trailer behind her, “Not that you have anything worth _stealing_.” The witch narrows her eyes and Kate chuckles, raises her hands to place them on her hips. “I've come only to share your meal, you wouldn't turn away a fellow witch, would you?”

Jennifer regards her closely, looking her over from her head to her feet. She must find something that convinces her of Kate's status, because in the next moment she's relenting.

“Fine.” With a snap of her fingers, a bird perched on the trailer erupts in a swirling mist of red and white, leaving behind a petite woman with soft curls.

Kate startles ever so slightly when she recognizes the face of the illegitimate child that resulted from one of her father's many nights with his mistress. When the woman's eyes dawn with realization of her own, Kate's lips curl into a wicked grin.

“Claudia,” Kate says delightedly, “Still haven't found your way home, I see?”

Claudia, who'd looked more surprised than deterred when faced with Kate, narrows her eyes so slightly Kate would have missed it if she wasn't looking.

“Heard you got yourself kicked out of it,” Claudia retorts, just as quick tongued as she'd been twenty two years ago.

Kate's eyes go sharp as she sneers harshly at her half-sister. It's no mystery to either of them what Kate's motivation had been when she'd taken Claudia with her to Market Town the day she “mysteriously” went missing.

It had only been a few months after Kate had begun to dabble in magic, and Claudia was the only one out of the entire royal family (and kingdom) who'd figured it out. Of course, Kate couldn't have little Claudia running her mouth and ratting her out; she'd done what was necessary.

“You two know each other?” Jennifer observes from where she's rotating the spit that's been fashioned over the fire.

“Regrettably,” Kate says shortly, turns to the witch and tilts her head sweetly. “Do you mind?”

Jennifer makes a noise of confirmation, waves her hand in Claudia's direction. “By all means.”

With a smirk, Kate snaps sharply, a spark of green fire sizzles around her fingers as Claudia erupts in that same swirling red and white, and returns to her perch as a bird.

Jennifer hums as she takes the spit down from the make-shift stand. “How do you take your cat?”

“Tail up.”

 

Kate picks at the cat slowly, relishing how it melts on her tongue.

“Good?” Jennifer asks, and Kate lifts an eyebrow in her direction, plops another piece of meat on her tongue as answer. It seems to be enough for the old witch, who goes back to her own meal. “Headed anywhere interesting?"

Kate wiggles her eyebrows, and leans forward to whisper conspiratorially; “I'm tracking down a star. It fell not far from here, actually.”

“Oh?” Jennifer prompts, setting her meal aside as her eyes flash with interest.

Kate nods smugly, “Once I've found it, I'll cut out its heart and feast on the power it –– possesses...” Kate's words grow faint as she trails off, her eyebrows pinching together in confusion.

“A fallen star,” Jennifer muses, as Kate turns suspiciously towards her food and lifts it to her nose. “Wouldn't mind that extra boost of power myself -” her words cut off when Kate stands and throws the food to the floor.

“You've got to be the stupidest witch I've ever met,” she spits, “Using _limbus grass_ to steal secrets, are we? My, Jennifer, I'm almost embarrassed by your archaic practices.”

Jennifer shoves herself up and into a defensive stance, “How do you know my name?” She asks, hands twitching by her thighs.

Kate eyes the movement and scoffs, “Please, do you really think out of the two of us _you'd_ make it out of a duel alive?”

A dark expression flashes across Jennifer' features, before her hand is shooting up and she's throwing a mediocre - at _best -_ paralysis spell towards Kate.

Kate dodges it effortlessly, her hand in turn flying to the knife at her thigh. With a snap of her wrist finds Jennifer pinned against the trailer, her casting hand stuck through with the knife.

Kate tsks as she stalks towards the old hag. “Really, I expected more from you.”

Jennifer shakes her head, terrified and rightly so. “You have my word that I will not seek the star,” she sobs, thick, crimson blood trickling down her wrist as her palm pulses around the knife. “I promise.”

Kate laughs, an unforgiving noise that comes from the back of her throat. “You're lucky that you don't merit the waste of my energy, or you'd be drowning in your own blood by now.”

Jennifer whines, and Kate moves forward to yank the knife back, letting the witch crumble to the floor. She sheaths her weapon, and is there in an instant to pull the witch's head back so she's looking into Kate's eyes.

“Seek all you wish,” she stars her hands on either side of Jennifer's head, fingers ablaze with flamed magic as she does so. Her voice reverberates with tumbling magic as it swirls into pointed words: “You will not see the star, touch, smell or hear it. You will not perceive him for what he is even if he stands before you.”

Jennifer falls back in a daze, and Kate groans as the exuberance from such a spell leaves her light headed.

Once she's gotten her bearings back in order, she straightens and regards the witch in disgust. She'd kill the pathetic hag if she wasn't the only person standing in between her half-sister's freedom.

“If I were you,” Kate says lowly, “I'd pray you never meet me again.”

With that, Kate turns to leave.

-

 

An ache of longing flares hotly beneath Derek's skin when the stars come out above him. It's new, this mixture of desolation and wistfulness that itches at his insides; his friends and family shine in the heavens and he can do nothing but watch from below.

It used to be the other way around, he used to watch, used to yearn for night so he could admire the rock's inhabitants from a distance. History, memories, _life_ would unfold before him and his brethren, and they would drink up any bit of it that they could. He'd lied before when he'd told Stiles his home posed nothing more than an insignificance to him, for the truth of it is he'd dreamed of experiencing life as people here do.

Now, his chance has been spoiled by an infuriating human boy, and a tight chain cutting into his wrist.

Derek can't help the flare of indignation at being treated like something to be owned, something that Stiles clearly views as nothing more than a token of affection for some faceless Lydia that Derek can't help but resent.

The nerve he'd had, Derek thinks, at pretending to be worried on Derek's behalf. Surely he was only upset his 'gift' wasn't in pristine condition. Sure, he had looked concerned as he inspected Derek's leg – eyelashes stark streaks of black against his smooth skin – and he _did_ seem genuine when he scolded Derek for keeping it from him; not because he was angry, but, perhaps, worried.

Still, it didn't keep him from leaving Derek tied up to a tree in the middle of the woods.

A twig snaps in the distance, pulling Derek from his thoughts.

He lifts his head from the tree and turns in the direction the noise came from. “Stiles?” No reply. Derek shifts where he's sitting, pushing himself to sit up straighter. He calls out again, trepidation tingling at the back of his neck when he once again receives no answer.

Taking a grounding breath, he tries once more: “Stiles, if that's you, I swear–” but his words cut off when the bushes finally part, and out trots a majestic, radiant unicorn. As it walks, a glow completely unlike sunlight accompanies it, the innocence held in its eyes similar to the air that surrounds it.

Derek lets out a relieved breath, slumping back against the tree after winding himself tight with anticipation. The unicorn makes its way over to Derek at a leisurely pace, and he lifts his hand to scrub it over it's soft snout. “I don't have any food to give you,” he says gently. The unicorn in reply blinks aimlessly, before stepping away from Derek. Derek respectfully retracts his hand; he's in no place to make the creature stay if it wishes to go.

Only, instead of galloping back into the forest like Derek had expected, it's stepping up to the thick tree trunk Derek is tied to. It tilts its horn to the side so that it can slip in between the chain and the tree. Then it tugs backward, and the chain breaks with a single snap that rings soundly through the dim forest. Derek watches with fascination as the chain closes in on itself, flashes out of existence, and in effect releases its hold on his wrist.

He laughs brightly as he inspects his wrist. Considering he's only had the particular body piece for a handful of hours, the amount of relief he feels at no longer having it enclosed in the uncomfortable metal is surprising, but no less pleasing.

Derek smiles up at the unicorn, who in turn whinnies proudly, and takes to its knees.

Derek blinks curiously at the offering of the creature. “You want me to go with you?” He asks, glancing down the path where Stiles had disappeared into the forest.

An image comes to mind then, one where Stiles is embracing his beloved and Derek is forgotten for all times. When it comes down to it, Derek hasn't got any real evidence that suggests Stiles is trustworthy, that he'd keep up with his half of the bargain when they reach this Beacon place.

Derek presses his lips together, and turns back to regard the unicorn at his feet. It's the uncertainty of such a thought, the uncertainty of the agreement which lead to them traveling together, that brings Derek to his decision: he has to find a way on his own.

Struggling to his feet, Derek limps his way over to the horse before taking a seat on its back, the creature staying perfectly still as he does so. As it takes to its feet, he has to fist his fingers into its mane to hold his balance, and then they're trotting away.

 

-

 

Kate smiles down at the small wooden pieces when they land in her hand, facing up. If the divination she's read are correct, the star should cross her path in no more than an hour's time.

She tsks when she turns to look down at the empty clearing before her. Though she's sure her body could attract any man to her without question, there's a high chance she'll have to _trap_ the star instead.

With a shrill snap of her fingers and a flash of light, black bleeds out across the expanse of land, green flames building off one another in order to reveal a homey looking inn.

She smiles, “Perfect.”

 

-

 

As they continue to pass nothing but more trees, Derek's not sure if they're traveling further into the forest or closer towards civilization. The prospect of getting lost or even happening upon a group of unfriendly travelers swirl around his brain.

He's sure his physique is the type to inspire intimidation here on Earth, but with his hurt leg he's not positive he could be much of a match against _any_ threat.

The sky cracks with thunder overhead just as the unicorn beneath him whinnies loudly. Derek shifts his gaze forward at the prompting of the great beast, and fills with relief when he spots the opening of a clearing just ahead.

“Come on,” Derek says, leaning forward to pat the unicorn's neck, “Lets see what's up there.” Right as they cross the barrier of the trees and enter the clearing, the sky opens and rain pours down in relentless, heavy amounts.

Derek blinks harshly against the rain. Once his eyes adjust, he's able to spot the lights of a building shining out up ahead. Anxious to get out of the rain, Derek clicks his tongue to make the unicorn move forward at a faster pace.

It's only when he's finally dipping off the back of the unicorn in front of the building that he notices the sign placed above it. _“Inn”_ it reads, and Derek has enough knowledge about the happenings on Earth that he's pretty confident that anyone inside will offer him solace from this weather.

He leads the unicorn to a dry spot protected from the rain by an awning. “Stay,” he tells it, running a hand down its flank when it nudges at his hand with its snout. He smiles softly, then turns to walk up to the door.

Under the ledge of the porch the rain doesn't reach Derek, but he's still dripping profusely when it finally opens inwardly. Behind it stands a young women.

“Oh my!” The woman gasps at the sight of him, “Come in out of the rain, you must be soaked to the core!” Derek regards her momentarily, hand outstretched and face twisted in what seems to be honest worry.

He tells himself it's nothing to be threatened by, and heeds the woman's welcome by stepping in through the door. He's enveloped in warmth as he takes in the cozy lobby set up on the first floor. The rain continues to pound relentlessly against the roof, the wind howling through the night, but inside it feels safe – like nothing can breech these walls.

Behind him the woman shuts the door, and walks over to wrap her arm around the width of his shoulders. She begins tutting softly about how he might catch a cold. “Here, lets get you out of these clothes and into a warm bath.”

Derek see's no reason at all as to why he should resist. As they're walking, though, the woman takes notice of his limp, and his heart begins to beat frantically when she asks if he's injured.

He says the first thing that comes to mind: “I fell off my horse in the woods.” She must take his anticipation at being found out for bashfulness, because in the next moment she's cooing and rubbing a hand over his back.

“Well, a nice relaxing bath should fix that right up, don't you worry!”

She leads him past the humble sitting area placed in front of a wide, open fireplace, up the wide staircase and down a hallway until they reach a room with a giant bear-claw tub situated in the middle.

The woman leaves him in the doorway to fetch some towels and a robe from a small cabinet. “Here we are,” she smiles softly as she sets the towels by the tub. “I assume you'll manage the rest?”

Derek nods immediately, not wanting to arise suspicion. Bathing isn't a hard concept in theory, he's sure he can figure it out.

She smiles brilliantly, “Great, I'll leave you to it then.” As she walks around the tub, she brushes her fingers through the water – it must be a trick of the light when he thinks he see's a flash of green bleed out from her fingertips. Once the door is closed behind her retreating form, he begins to undress.

The moment he's seated in the tub, a sort of tingling warmth surges up and through his body. The sensation seems to be fully centered on his injured leg, and not ten minutes later the pain is almost nonexistent.

The woman must have been right when she suggested that a bath was all he needed. He feels completely rejuvenated, his injury now a matter of the past.

He steps out and dries himself off after indulging in the relaxing water for a moment more than necessary. Once he has the robe secured around him, he leaves in search of the woman. He finds her a few doors down, preparing a bed he deduces is for himself. He regards the soft material and yearns to finally lay to rest after such a long day.

He almost forgets the woman is even in the room when she straightens and asks, “Feeling better?”

He turns to her and nods, “My leg feels better.”

“I'm glad,” she purrs, sauntering over to where he's standing in the doorway. “It's important to have someone take care of you, don't you agree?”

Derek creases his eyebrows in thought, barely registering their close proximity as he shrugs. “I suppose it is.”

The woman hums, then lifts her hand to brush it down his jaw. “I'm glad you agree,” she sighs, and then she's pushing forward and placing her lips on his.

The kiss only lasts for a moment or two, it coming to an abrupt end when Derek tosses himself against the wall behind him to escape it. He's sure his features are shocked and confused as he tries to process what has just happened. The woman, on the other hand, looks thoroughly aggrieved before she's smoothing her expressions into sympathetic understanding.

“Have you never done this before?” She coos, taking a step forward to eliminate the distance between their bodies. “Don't worry, I can show you what to do.”

Derek's eyes grow wide with horror at the very thought. He's not completely ignorant to the act the woman is so obviously referring to, but the thought of engaging in such an act with her awakens a need inside him to duck and run. His heart pounds fast when he fails to come up with a way for him to escape.

It's for this reason that he nearly sinks to the floor in relief when she only has time to lean in a part of the ways, before three resounding knocks from the front door echo through the house.

It's almost a growl that hisses through her lips as she yanks herself away.

“It appears I have another customer,” she says through her teeth, forcing a grin that's a lot less pleasant than the one he had been greeted with at the door. “I'll be right back,” she says like a warning, and leaves in a swish of blonde curls.

Derek in turn takes a deep, calming breath, and ducks quickly out of the room.

 

-

 

Kate opens the door to find her eldest brother, Deucalion, waiting on the other side of it. Her breath catches in her throat as he turns to her, drenched in water and nearly a foot taller than she'd remembered. Her hand itches around the blade held behind her back – the one she'd pulled out upstairs as she'd cornered the star in the bedroom – readying herself for the moment he recognizes her.

Only, that moment never arrives. Instead, he huffs in irritation and pushes past her. “Finally, I've been out in the rain turning blue while waiting for you to answer the door. I'll need a room.”

He stomps over to the sitting area and plops down on one of the great arm chairs that adorn the fireplace. With his back to her, a devious smirk crawls slowly onto her face at being presented with the perfect opportunity to commence her reign of revenge.

As politely as she can manage, Kate says, “Yes, of course,” and slowly begins moving forward. “Would you like some tea while you wait for me to make up a bed?” She's behind him now, his posture slumping as he makes himself comfortable.

“Yes, that would be –“ His words die with the slice of Kate's blade across his throat. He sputters as blood fills his mouth, eyes still open when he finally falls back dead.

She hears a strangled gasp come from the staircase behind her and spins hurriedly in time to see a white robe escape around the corner. She sighs, wipes the knife off on her apron, and makes her way towards the staircase.

 

-

 

It takes far longer than Stiles had expected to find a pair of sticks of appropriate splinting size. So long, in fact, that the sun has long since set and he's equal amounts irritable and tired by the time he stumbles his way back onto the path.

As if by way of expressing how little the universe thinks of him, the skies had opened up and started pouring just moments before he happened upon the trail. He feels justified in this way to look up and curse pointedly at the open sky.

He'd come to the decision that they'll just have to tear off a piece of his or Derek's clothing to secure the two splints. It's not the best material in the world, but he's not going to play the picky card after stumbling through thorn bushes and protruding tree roots for how ever many hours.

Of course, it would be a lot easier to secure the two splints if Derek were still in the place Stiles had left him.

“Oh... _hell,_ ” Stiles hisses as he comes to a stop in front of the Derek-less tree he'd left him at “Perfect,” he grumbles, and chucks the sticks he'd collected at the trunk. They thwack wetly against the surface, but it's not nearly as gratifying as he'd hoped it to be.

“Excuse me,” a low voice comes from behind him, and Stiles flails madly as he turns towards the voice, tripping backwards on one of the wet roots of the tree as he does so. Standing a few feet away is a hooded person, a shadow ominously masking their face. “Are you the one traveling with the star?”

Stiles can tell by the voice that the person underneath the hood is a girl.

“Uh,” Stiles licks his lips, getting a taste of rain water as he does. “Who's asking?”

She must take that as a yes, because in the next moment she's moving forward, wrapping thin fingers around his wrist and pulling him to his feet.

“You need to come with me,” is all she offers as explanation before turning and yanking him further into the forest. He tries to protest, perhaps get out of her grip, but his efforts prove futile as they maneuver through the thicket.

“ _Lord_ you're strong,” he hisses, her hand only tightening the more he tries to pull away. Surely the rain should make it harder to get a secure grip on him, but alas, her hold prevails. He says as a last attempt, “Can you just – slow _down.”_

“We have to hurry.”

He laughs a little hysterically, “Hurry _where_? Maybe if you told me where you were taking me-”

“Your star is in grave danger.” Stiles' mouth makes an audible _click_ as he shuts it quickly. “He's headed into a trap.”

“Okay,” Stiles drawls after a moment, feeling as though the world, or perhaps a very thick sheet of cloth, has been yanked out from beneath his feet - leaving him reeling. “What kind of trap?”

Her reply is instantaneous, “One set by an incredibly powerful, and incredibly dangerous huntress.”

His heart upticks at this, and in a moderately hysterical voice, he asks, “And what exactly am I suppose to do about that?!”

“Save him.”

Stiles snorts, nearly thwacking his head against a passing trunk as he tosses his head back. He rights himself quickly, and turns back towards the girl. “I think your hood is obstructing your vision. I'm a _human_ , okay? A defenseless, powerless human who's _maybe_ one hundred and fifty pounds wet.” He flaps his hand to punctuate the very state of said wetness.

His words don't slow the woman's steps or bring her to her senses like he hopes they would. If anything, she tugs him even faster. Stiles realizes after a moment that they're nearing a clearing, and right as they reach the edge she's stopping – so suddenly that Stiles comes barreling into her back, making an 'oomph' sound as he does.

“You're not too big on communication, are you?” Stiles grumbles, moves in front of her to see what caused her to stop. He's met with the image of an Inn standing alone in the clearing.

“There,” she clarifies.

Stiles' eyebrows crease, voice dropping to a whisper. “That's the trap?” He asks, “Doesn't look very grave to me.”

“It was meant to _lure_ your star in,” the woman explains, sounding bored with the situation. After a moment of silence, she tilts her head and says, “And it worked.” Her hold lets up then, and Stiles pulls his hand away to rub at his wrist.

“What do we do?” He asks.

“ _You're_ going to save him,” she retorts.

“How do I know that I can trust you?” Stiles asks, voice serious in his inquiry.

“I'm a mercenary, and I was hired to make sure you reach your star safely. I'm possibly the _only_ person in Stormhold whom you can trust.” Then she's shoving at his back, causing him to stumble forward into the clearing.

“Hey!” Stiles cries indignantly, but when he turns to glare at the woman she's nowhere to be found. Stiles curses, and stocks forward towards the Inn. It's not until he's made it halfway across the clearing that he realizes she'd referred to Derek as _his_ star.

Stiles scoffs at the notion of such a thing, crosses his arms over his chest to protect himself from the rain currently chilling him to his core. Once he reaches the Inn, he spots a wide window on the side of the building and ducks in front of it.

He breathes slowly through his open mouth as he focuses his hearing on the inside of the inn, praying he hadn't been spotted. Once he's reassured that his position hasn't been compromised, he grips the seal of the window and peeks his head over to peer inside.

As if being dropped off a shallow ledge, Stiles' heart begins pounding profusely at the sight awaiting him inside. He yanks himself out of view. His head reels unpleasantly with the fast movement, stomach churning as he retches forcefully at having seen a man with his throat cut open – eyes cold and open and so life like in his demise.

Stiles' hands shake as he goes to all fours. He desperately tries to shake off the nausea that threatens the contents of his stomach. He exhales shakily as terror laces his every nerve, his fingers gripping the grass as the rain washes his hair into his face.

The nausea wins out, and he empties the contents of his stomach onto the grass. Frigid trembles arise in its stead. They rack his frame as the realization of how dangerous this situation is beats down on him, not entirely unlike the rain.

He wonders for a terrible moment if Derek is still alive, if he'd met the same fate as the man inside. A sudden, overwhelmingly crushing thought flickers through Stiles' mind, whispering that it'd be _his_ fault if anything happens to the man.

Stiles wipes at his mouth and decides he's not going to let that happen. With a renewed fervor, he stands on shaky legs. He presses himself against the side of the Inn and breaths slowly before inching his way along the wall. Once he reaches the edge of the building, he lifts his head off the wall to peek around, and is met with a mess of green vines winding along the next wall, all the way up to the second story.

For a moment he feels himself hesitate, and forces to mind the picture of Derek dying alone – not knowing anything of Earth but an asshole who'd forced him into acting as a gift, and a bloodthirsty huntress who holds no qualms with taking a life.

He grips the vines sturdily.

With as little noise as he can possibly make, he climbs up the side of the wall. Left foot first, he twists the roots as best he can around his hand before hauling himself farther up. It's not long before he's able to reach over and climb up onto the second story balcony.

He gets to his feet with little effort, and ducks in through the double doors that lead to a warm, dry bedroom, and slips behind the heavy red drapes lining the balcony doors. He tries to calm his breathing, lifting a hand to hold it against his heart as if he could press it into submission. His only saving grace from his current situation is when he convinces himself that his heart isn't beating hard enough to be audible to anyone but himself.

Once he's absolutely sure that no huntresses of any kind are anywhere near his current vicinity, he slowly creeps his way out from behind the curtains, and towards the open door. Said door leads out into a wide and long hallway, dozens of similar doors lining the dark wooden corridor.

As if the setting hadn't been eerie enough, a loud, heavy crash sounds from down the hall. It's accompanied by the sound of footsteps, causing Stiles to freeze not two feet from the doorway he walked out of.

He only has enough time to think, ' _I'm going to die_ ' before two hands reach out and wrap themselves around his mouth and torso, the tight grip yanking him to the side and out of the hallway before he can be spotted.

Stiles thrashes wildly as he's tugged around a dark room, only stilling when he's pressed down onto the floor – behind what he assumes is a bed – and hears a familiar voice hush him hurriedly.

His frantic panic is immediately replaced with outright fury. He makes a muffled noise of outrage at the realization of who is above him, and lifts his hands to smack at Derek's wrist until he lifts his hand and allows Stiles to speak. “I can't believe you ran away!” Stiles whispers angrily, “What were you thinking?”

Derek looks at him in disbelief before whispering back just as forcefully: “Is this _really_ the time to discuss who's at fault in this situation?”

“What do you mean 'who's at fault'? _You're_ the one at fault here!” He lifts a finger and pokes him hard in the chest. “ _You're_ the one that walked right into a trap! _You're_ the one that –”

Stiles' words trail off absently when his eyes flit down to Derek's lips on their own volition.

“Is that-” he says, eyes narrowing as he looks closer. “Oh my _god_ , it is!” He throws his head back and covers his face with his hands. He very nearly smacks Derek's in the face considering how closely they're pressed, but he can't find it in him to care. “I nearly rung myself dry with guilt thinking you were going to get diced up and put into huntress _stew_ ,” Stiles grouses, “And you're off getting friendly with some _girl_?!”

“What?” Derek asks, eyebrows creasing as he lifts his hands to wipe at his lips; they come away stained with the same red lipstick smeared across them. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Stiles snaps and yanks his hands away from his face so that he can push at Derek's chest instead. “Get off me, I should have left you to be eaten.”

Derek rolls his eyes heavily. “It's the _huntresses'_ lipstick,” he says as explanation.

Stiles openly gawks at the man, “That only makes it worse!” He accuses.

Derek opens his mouth as though to speak, but before he can, he's tilting his head absently and then ducking to rest his forehead on Stiles' shoulder. He once again covers Stiles' mouth with his hand.

Before Stiles can grow too indignant from the movement, he hears what must have spooked Derek in the first place; footsteps, growing louder as they near their door. The footsteps pace back and forth down the hallway, before pausing in where Stiles assumes is the doorway. Stiles goes rigid with fear, and belatedly makes himself listen to the steady in and out flow of Derek's breath to calm him down.

It's then that Stiles becomes terribly aware of _just_ how close he and Derek are pressed. Derek's body rises and falls with Stiles', and if he pays close attention – he can feel Derek's heart _beat_ against his. Goosebumps rise on his skin as Derek's warm breath ghosts along his bare neck.

It inspires a peculiar sensation to course through him, boggling his mind and giving him an uncontrollable urge to either flinch away or slowly, curiously press closer. It's incredibly inconvenient that his heart chooses _that_ moment to start pounding heavily in his chest, and he curses whatever deity's there might be who pleasure from his pain.

Derek shifts slowly, turns his head to whisper, “Calm down,” into Stiles' ear.

The footsteps have grown faint from moving farther away, and Stiles chooses then to pull Derek's hand away from his lips. He swallows audibly. “We need to get out of here,” Stiles whispers, feeling shaky and odd in his skin. Derek nods in agreement, lifting himself off of Stiles and offering his hand out to him once he's standing.

“I came in through a window,” Stiles says to Derek as they make their way towards the door, our into the hallway. “We can leave the same way –”

“How sweet,” someone coos from behind them.

Stiles spins to find a gorgeous blonde woman looming at the end of the corridor. Her eyes are sharp from where they're cast in shadows, her smirk wicked and delirious. Stiles grips Derek's wrist on reflex, realizing all at once that _this_ is the huntress the woman in the woods had warned him about. Suddenly, he doesn't blame Derek all that much for falling for her trap.

She scoffs as she regards his grip. “Don't tell me you're going to try to play the hero,” she chuckles in open mockery.

Tightening his jaw as well as his grip on Derek's wrist, Stiles moves to take a step back and –

“Uh uh!” The huntress tuts, snapping her fingers and causing a wall of green fire to flare up in their path, blocking the way to the bedroom he'd come in from and nearly searing Stiles' skin in the process.

Stiles shouts in both surprise and pain as he stumbles away from the flames, falling against Derek as he in turn pulls him out of the fire's reach.

With a sigh, the huntress places her casting hand on her hip. “It's a terrible inconvenience to have to cut out your heart when it's not at it's brightest,” she shakes her head solemnly before shrugging, and Stiles' eyes grow wide with horror when he realizes she's talking about _Derek_ . “But I guess that's the price to pay when _others_ interfere. All the same, a frightened heart is better than no heart at all,” she recites this like a mantra, voice growing rough and crazed as she lifts a gleaming dagger into view. He can _feel_ Derek tense in horror from where they're pressed side to side, and he realizes then that there's no other choice to make.

Twisting his free hand into the fabric at Derek's lower back, he pulls the Babylon candle from where it had been lodged in his pocket and turns quickly to stammer out a hurried, “Hold on to me and think of home!”

Derek blindly obeys, and Stiles throws his hand to the side at the exact moment the huntress reaches them, the candle encased in his grip flaring hotly in the wall of green fire.

And then there is nothing but the rain on their backs. 

He gasps in delight when he realizes it worked, that the Babylon candle safely transported them out from under the Inn's roof.

That is, until he begins to pull away and realizes they are in _no way_ near Beacon Hills, let alone safely _inside_ of it.

“What the _hell?_ ” Stiles shouts over the thundering down pour of rain, moving back from Derek as he takes in the clouds surrounding them, the thunder clouds they're _standing_ on.

He blinks once, mouth agape in dumb confusion, before turning back to Derek and throwing an accusative finger in his direction. “What did you _do_!”

Derek blinks through the rain beating against his face, an angry scowl screwing up his face. “ _Me_?” He practically roars, “ _You're_ the one that told me to think of home!”

Stiles groans and bats his wet hair out of his face impatiently. “Yes! _My_ home! Why the hell would I tell you to think of _your_ home?”

“Why would I think of _yours?!_ ” Derek shoots back just as vehemently.

Stiles scoffs, stumbling momentarily on the unstable ground. “Maybe because _I'm not a star?_ How could you _possibly_ have thought that transporting me into the bloody _sky_ would turn out to be anything other than a _disaster_ ?” Stiles throws his hands out to the side, “A disaster that probably would have ended in my _death_ , thank you very much, you almost _killed me._ ”

Derek slides up to Stiles, chest to chest, and when he growls it rumbles through Stiles from head to toe. “I very nearly had my _heart_ cut out just now,” he grits out. “If you'd have been more specific, maybe we wouldn't be arguing _semantics._ ”

“Some crazy huntress with fingers that shoot _fire_ was about to kill us _,_ and you're complaining that I wasn't as clear on my directions as you would have liked?!” Stiles throws his head back in exasperation, the move dislodging their chests as he shakes with irritation. “Would you have preferred I wrote you through carrier pigeon, Derek? Hmm? Left you a note with step by step instructions that you could have studied before putting them into action?” Derek's lip curls in anger at Stiles' words, but Stiles doesn't care; the events of tonight are reason enough for him to let satire lace his words like acid. “At least I came up with a plan that saved our lives!”

Derek scoffs harshly. “Yes, and what a _brilliant_ plan that was! 'Think of home,'” he mocks petulantly, and it might have been a more effective jab if the two of them weren't currently stumbling around and shouting to the point Stiles is _sure_ will result in sore throats in the morning. That is, if there even _is_ a morning for the two of them. “ _You_ thought of your home and _I_ thought of mine,” Derek bellows, the wind picking up and swirling around with the rain pelting them from every side, “Now we're _somewhere in between the two!”_

It's then that something heavy and wet falls on top of them both, Stiles' heart lurching up into his throat as it yanks them down and through the cloud.

 

 

-TBC-

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, and bookmarks mean the absolute world to me!  
> *Shoves love into your arms if you leave any of these 3 things*
> 
> -[tumblr](http://raisesomehale.tumblr.com)-


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